


Beneath The Silver Moon

by SailorChibi



Series: Silver Moon [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega!John, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 73
Words: 85,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being bitten in Afghanistan, John was invalided home. Being a werewolf was new to him, and he wasn't interested in any of the help or orientation that the Centre had to offer, but even his wolf knew better than to enter territory that had been marked. Until his first outside change, when he met a strange alpha wolf that wanted John to follow it home into pack territory. John's initial refusal became a challenge for the curious alpha... one Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117781535#t117781535) on the BBC kink meme.
> 
> The rating may (read: probably will) go up as the story progresses.
> 
> I have added the tag of "mildly dub/con". I think all omega/beta/alpha AUs could be termed this but I don't want to upset anyone.

It had been so long since he'd seen the London skyline that he'd almost forgotten how beautiful it could look. Pity there was no time for him to admire the scenery. John Watson leaned heavily on his cane as he limped down the pavement. The cool night air had slipped underneath the collar of his jacket, allowing a persistent chill to settle into his bones. His left shoulder ached with a deep pain that he tried his best to ignore.

Sweat beaded across his forehead in spite of the wind and he shivered, hunching his shoulders protectively. The clouds overhead finally shifted, allowing the nearly full moon to shine through, and he felt a strange wrenching in the pit of his stomach. He placed his hand across his belly and took a series of slow, deep breaths. The sensation was peculiar, and, even though he was inexperienced with the whole matter, he suspected it wasn't normal. Probably the sort of thing he should have sought treatment for. Exactly the sort of thing he would ignore.

Once the unfamiliar feeling had receded a little, he continued on his way, the faint, steady tapping of his cane his only companion. His destination came into sight shortly. It was a tall, brick building about three stories high, completely non-descript and ordinary. No one walking by would have known what was inside, and for that, he was grateful. He grimaced as he hobbled up the five stairs and pushed the door open.

Warm air rushed out to greet him and his senses sang with relief as he stepped inside. A young girl glanced up as he entered, golden eyes flashing in the brilliant light. "Welcome, stranger," she said, rising. "Are you John Watson?"

"I am," he said, discomfited by the fact that she knew his name already. "I take it I'm in the correct spot."

She smiled. "You'd be correct. My name is Mary. We've been waiting for you to arrive, Dr Watson. I had expected you a few hours ago."

John merely shrugged in reply, not deigning to answer the inquiry, however gently it had been phrased. It had taken him some time to re-orient himself. Being back in London was a shock to the system after months in the dry climate of Afghanistan, and part of him hadn't been sure he should be here at all. Yet he had nowhere else he would rather be, and that summed up his life quite perfectly at the moment. 

"Alright, well, I'll take you to your room. The army has agreed to pay for your lodgings for a full month until you're better able to get yourself on your feet." She stepped out from behind the desk with a spry bounce that left him feeling envious. "I assume you've already taken care of... everything?" Her eyes dropped significantly to the small patch he wore on the breast of his jacket. "I was told that the Centre would explain the way things work around the territory."

"They did," John replied. Once again, he saw no reason to elaborate or enlighten her to the fact that, though the centre had undoubtedly explained everything in great detail, he had not listened to a word of it.

Mary's smile grew brilliant. "Excellent. You wouldn't believe how many pups we get around here with no idea of what they're doing. Causes a bit of trouble, I tell you." She led him towards the back of the building, down a long corridor, around a corner, and then stopped before a door. "Your room. We serve a small meal for breakfast at half past nine but you're on your own for lunch and dinner. If you need anything, you can come find me."

"And for the full moon?"

For a moment, she looked confused. Then understanding dawned and she chuckled. "We're not like the Centre, Mr Watson. There is no designated space. As long as you've taken care of everything, we encourage you to roam around freely. I assure you that the people of London are quite used to seeing us and those that aren't have been advised to remain indoors." She looked once more at his patch. "In your case, special accommodations can be made when the time arises."

Some part of him wondered what she meant by that, but he was so tired that he didn't have the strength to stand there and chat any longer. "Thank you, Mary."

"No problem! Let me know if you need anything." 

The room was small, with just enough space to house a small single bed that had seen better days, a nightstand, a desk and chair, and little else. It was shelter, though, and for that John was grateful. He set down his army-issued backpack and sank down onto the bed with a sigh. It felt good to rest his aching leg and he rubbed his thigh absently as he looked around, noting the dreary white paint that was so dirty it had become an unflattering shade of grimy grey. 

"What am I doing here?" he muttered, shaking his head. Automatically, he opened his backpack and searched through the meagre contents until he found his cell phone. It was the one item of good quality he owned, not that he really needed one. He wasn't surprised to see that there were no new messages waiting. Harry had promised to call, but such was the nature of family: they were easily driven from the mind by the bottom of a bottle.

He placed his cane against the nightstand and then slowly, awkwardly, shifted until he was lying down. His backpack fell against his thigh, sending a smattering of pamphlets across his lap. John scowled. The woman at the Centre had forced them into his hands as he was leaving, insisting that he would need the material to be fully prepared for the experience. But what more was there to it? During the nights of the full moon, he lost his humanity. What else did he need to know?


	2. Chapter 2

The morning dawned with dark gray clouds and a heavy drizzling of rain that soaked the entire city. John opened his eyes at the sound of the drops against the window and sat up wearily. He moved without thought, stretching, and gasped as a jolt of bright pain shot down his arm. Instantly, he froze, gripping his wounded shoulder tightly. It hadn't taken him long to realize that the closer it got to the full moon, the more the bite mark would ache, sometimes worse than it had when he'd first been attacked. He rubbed the area around the wound gently, trying to encourage the tense muscles to relax. As he did, he looked around.

In the light of the day, his room and circumstances seemed no better. John sighed heavily as he grabbed his cane and hefted himself up. He was still wearing his clothing from the night before and he saw no need to change before he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. He hobbled gingerly down the hall in the direction he and Mary had come the night before.

"Dr Watson!"

John tensed and turned stiffly. "Good morning, Mary."

"I have mail for you!" Mary waved an envelope as she approached. "It arrived last night but I neglected to give it to you. I'm sorry."

He glanced at the label. It was from the Centre. "Think nothing of it. Could you direct me to the kitchen?"

"Certainly. I was just headed there myself." She scurried past him and beckoned for him to follow. It didn't escape his notice that she was moving more slowly, at a pace that she likely thought it would be easier for him to match. The attention, such as it was, rankled, but he tried to ignore it.

"I'm going to make some tea. Would you care for a cuppa?" she asked as they entered the kitchen.

"Please." He sank down onto one of the table chairs and watched as she moved away, bustling over to one of the cupboards and taking out a kettle. While she was occupied, John opened up the envelope. Inside was a small MP3 player along with a set of white earphones. There was no note. Curiosity peaked, John put the earphones in and pressed play.

_“Now, since you’ve indicated you don’t want to start, I’d like to ask you a question. Have you been having any nightmares about the incident?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Would you like to tell me about them?"_

_"What's to tell? I'm tending to one of my mates. A wolf sneaks up on me. I don't get out of the way in time. Same old story that has happened a thousand times."_

John stopped the recording before the woman could speak again. His stomach twisted at hearing the bitterness lacing his own voice. He knew what this was. Ella Thompson, his therapist at the Centre, had taped every one of their sessions, and she must have sent him the recording. But why? He didn't need to listen to it again. He'd lived through them once already.

The smart thing to do would have been to chuck it in the bin, but almost against his will, he nudged the play button once more.

_"John, I feel like you need to acknowledge what happened. Even though you've lived through a full moon already, you're disassociating yourself from the fact that you're now a werewolf. You absolutely cannot do that. Being an omega works in your favour, but only to a point. Yes, you won't have to worry as much about territorial issues, but you still must be careful."_

_"I'm always careful. That's how I got bitten in the first place."_

_"John. Please, try to take this seriously. Just because you can't get pregnant doesn't mean you're completely safe. You likely won't experience a heat, but it's not unheard of for even changed omegas to experience one or more under the right circumstances. Stress and so forth. Any alpha in the immediate area will be drawn to you if that happens. You - "_

John stopped it again. Yes, he remembered this session now. Ella had been trying to teach him about the differences between omegas, alphas, and betas. Most of the information had gone in one ear and out the other. As long as it didn't involve his immediate health or a cure for this insanity, he didn't want to know, but he could still remember the relief he'd felt at hearing that changed omegas, rare as they were, were unable to get pregnant. Something about the stress of the first full moon rendered females sterile, and of course, the men weren’t born with the right equipment. His human body had changed after the first moon, but not in any way that would end with him popping out a child in nine months if an alpha got a hold of him, heat or not.

He thrust the cord and the player into his pocket as Mary set a steaming cup of tea down in front of him. With a friendly smile, she waved and then left with a cup of her own. The tea was too sweet but he drank it anyway, relishing that there was at least one normal thing that had been left in his life. He was conscious of the player pressed against his bad leg, but he resisted the urge to take it out, instead staring blankly out the kitchen window.

That weird fluttering sensation filled his stomach again as he drank the last of his tea. It was stronger this time. He frowned, setting the cup down, and then gasped softly as the feeling began to intensify. Sweat broke out across his forehead as he doubled over, clutching at his abdomen with both hands. There was a churning low in his belly and he suddenly felt hot, like someone had turned up the heat. His hand shook as he reached out and grabbed the end of his cane. The world spun around him as he stood up and he leaned against the table, realizing that there was no way he’d be able to make it to his room in this condition. He would have to wait until the feelings – whatever they were – had passed.

It was a good fifteen minutes before John felt well enough to stand up without swaying. His stomach still felt queasy, and he was overly warm, sweating heavily, but he could walk without feeling as though he was going to tip over. For once, he was glad that he had the cane to help support his weight as he hurried back to his room as quickly as he could. There was an odd pressure in his lower abdomen, exactly where it had been aching before. A product of his sleepless nights or another symptom of the full moon? It was impossible to tell and there was no one he felt comfortable asking.

He panted softly as he reached the door to his room and entered. The small bed had never looked so welcoming and he sat down with a low groan of discomfort. This moon would be his first one outside of the Centre and he was not looking forward to it: the disorienting loss of sensation, the pain of a body forced to move in impossible ways, the wildness that seemed to linger for days afterwards. And if this was yet another indication of the coming moon, then he was ready to wash his hands of the whole mess. His eyes darted briefly towards his backpack and he gritted his teeth. Perhaps by any means necessary.

The dizziness swept over him again and he shut his eyes, realizing that he’d likely feel better if he was lying down. The pressure was worse in that position and he groaned, thrusting his hips uselessly against the bed until at last, exhaustion borne from weeks of very little sleep took him away.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the heavy tingling feeling in his body that eventually woke him up from a deep sleep. John lifted his head and looked around blearily, wondering how long he had slept for. The room had grown dark and there was only a bit of light seeping in around the curtains, yet he could see everything with no trouble at all. Suspicion bloomed in his mind and he looked down to confirm it. The sight of scruffy blond paws still filled him with a bit of panic; he didn't know if he'd ever get used to it.

With a low grunt, he stood up and hopped off of the bed. It was always disorienting for the first few minutes as his human mind tried to come to terms with a canine body. He wandered around the room, restless, until he realized that someone must have come along and opened his door just enough for him to be able to get out. That was good. Though it would've probably been safer for him to stay in the room during the night, he always felt the desire to be outside when he was a wolf, and it was worse tonight than it had ever been before: there was a burning low in his belly, the same as before and yet different, more intense. His nose seemed to be more sensitive, picking up on even the smallest of scents, each of which the canine side of him disregarded immediately. He felt as though he was searching for something, and though he didn't know what it was, he knew he'd know when he found it.

He used his nose to nudge the door open until he was able to move into the hallway. His ears were pricked, listening for any hint that there was someone left in the building, but all was quiet. Evidently he’d missed the initial transformation. John began to move at a loping stride down the hallway, searching for the door to the outside. It was easier to find his way through in his wolf form; all he had to do was follow the scent of the other wolves. In no time at all he was pushing the front door open.

It was a clear, calm night with no sign of the clouds or rain that had greeted him that morning. He tilted his head back, snout pointed at the sky, and woofed softly. Now he could hear the sounds of other wolves as they roamed around the city. For just a few nights of every month, the world belonged to the werewolves, while the humans, the poor sods, huddled inside and waited for sunrise. Part of him longed to join them, but another part of him wanted to stay away.

Finally, he went down the stairs and onto the pavement, which was cool beneath the pads of his feet. He began to walk, his shoulder throbbing with fresh pain with every step he took. His nose twitched constantly, memorizing the scents that were unique to London alone. Nothing smelled bad, just different, exotic, and new. He passed numerous other wolves but most of them paid him no attention, and that was just the way he liked it.

He took a left and then a right, heading for the little park that he had passed on his way from the station the day before. It had seemed as though it would be a good, safe place to spend the night. But as he grew nearer, something felt... off. A little niggling feeling rose in the back of his mind and he stopped, uncertain, looking around. He had the feeling that he was being watched, though he couldn't see - or smell - any other wolves in the immediate vicinity.

There was a tree nearby and he retreated towards it. 

He stopped.

Pack.

Oh.

Suddenly, what his canine side had been trying to tell him became clear. This was pack territory, a place he was not supposed to be. He growled softly, displeased that his plans for the night had been upset, and turned just as a wind sprang up. A smell wafted by his nose and he froze instantly.

It smelled... Well. There was really no way for his human brain to describe it, but it was intoxicating, rich and heavy, enfolding him in a sweet cloud. He breathed in deeply and felt his mind spin pleasantly as the throbbing in his lower regions immediately grew worse. He could feel his cock beginning to ache for attention; his hole felt painfully empty, clenching uselessly around air. That had certainly never happened when he was a wolf and it was enough to snap him out of his growing haze.

A wolf was watching him.

John stared at it - no, him - warily. The wolf was taller than John, though not as solidly built, with dark fur that had a bit of a curl at the end. Intelligent, pale eyes watched him closely, and he knew that this was no ordinary wolf. A werewolf, like him. And what's more, the tantalizing, heady scent was coming from this wolf. 

He voiced an inquiring yelp.

The wolf gave a low growl in response and took a step closer. John stiffened slightly, shoulders hunching, but didn't move. His canine side was trying to make him lay down, wanted him to bare his throat and whine for attention, but his human side was staunchly refusing to do anything of the sort. It was confusing to be caught between the two of them; he didn't know what to do. He panted, tongue hanging out of his mouth, and remained still as the wolf approached him and began to sniff his body. First his face, then along his shoulders, his flank, his tail, and then...

John growled when he felt a cold nose press against his hole. The contact was fleeting, but god it felt good. He spun around, teeth bared, and found the other wolf staring at him in what could only be amusement. The wolf stepped towards him and pressed his head against John’s side, trying to push John along. Being so close made the scent so much stronger. John’s eyes half-closed and he whined low in his throat. The throbbing was so maddening it took him a moment to understand that the other wolf wanted him to go inside the pack's territory.

Panic flooded through him and he jerked away. The other wolf uttered a sharp bark and he paused for just a moment, heart thundering, eyes wide, tail low, before giving a shake of his head and running in the opposite direction. It didn't matter where he ended up as long as the wolf with the addicting scent didn't follow.


	4. Chapter 4

As the moon faded and the sun rose anew, Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and stared up at his ceiling. He was curled up on his bed, where he ended every night of the full moon in privacy. The sleek Egyptian cotton sheets felt soothing against his heated skin, but nothing could settle the seething burn of desire that was still roiling in his chest. His cock was half-hard already, the knot at the base threatening to swell, and if he tilted his head just right he could still smell the delectable scent of that omega.

Scowling, he swept off of the bed and, completely naked, stormed out of the room. It took him nearly an hour to wash every scrap of that omega's scent off of his hair and skin, and by the end of it he still fancied that he could smell it a bit, even though he knew logically that the shampoo and soap had taken care of it. As he climbed out, he reached into the cabinet and took out a small bottle of pills. He popped one out and tossed it back, swallowing the little white pill dry.

He held the bottle in his hand and looked at it consideringly. It was his own creation, designed to help an alpha rise above their base instincts. It wasn't very often that he stumbled across an un-bonded omega, especially one in heat, but it did happen on occasion and he'd always loathed losing control. The pill should have prevented last night from happening, should have allowed him to maintain his distance from that omega.

But it hadn't. The omega had fled, but if he had come back to the flat, Sherlock would have gladly fucked him into the mattress as both a wolf and a human. Just the thought of it was enough to make him feel dizzy. He gritted his teeth and thrust the bottle back into the cabinet. What was it about that omega that made it so appealing? Why was his scent alone strong enough to over-ride both Sherlock's natural control and his chemically induced control?

It was... fascinating.

He swept out into the kitchen, already knowing what he would see. Though he rarely ate during most of the month, he was always hungry after a full moon, and Mrs Hudson would take advantage and prepare him a large breakfast. What he wasn't expecting, and was less than impressed to see, was that he had a visitor.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said coldly, not bothering to reach for his dressing gown. His nudity didn’t bother him and he hoped it would annoy Mycroft. He cast a quick glance over his sibling. Clothing was slightly wrinkled (he'd changed in the car – explained how he’d gotten here so fast after moonset). Dark lines under his eyes (he'd been having difficulty with Lestrade again). He was staring at Sherlock with mild irritation (the nudity was working). Interesting.

"Sherlock, put your clothes on."

Sherlock ignored him and sat down. "What do you want?"

Mycroft sighed. "I understand you ran across a pup last night."

"Yes, though I fail to see how that's any of your concern," Sherlock replied dismissively. Mycroft was the unofficial head of one of the largest packs in the world, though if pressed he would only admit to occupying a “minor position”. His territory included most of London, and he’d had a fair few challengers for the position, but an omega was hardly going to try to take over the pack.

"Pups are everyone's concern, Sherlock, but an omega especially." Mycroft leaned forward slightly. "You know un-bonded omegas are growing increasingly rare. I estimated that the omega you saw was in his early thirties, at least. Extremely odd. There are un-bonded alphas in the pack that would benefit from an omega."

Sherlock tensed and a growl rose in his chest before he could stop it. His silvery eyes gleamed golden as he straightened, teeth bared slightly, and if he’d had a tail, it would have been pointing straight back. The thought of that omega with anyone else, even a beta, was enough to make his senses howl in protest.

Mycroft's eyes widened slightly. That, and the way his hands tightened, was the only sign that he'd registered the warning. "You want him for yourself."

"I do not."

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock." Mycroft studied him for a moment and then his face softened minutely. "Would it be so bad to have an omega? It's what you were made for."

"I don't need anyone." Sherlock spat the words out like they were poison. "Much less something nature and biology believes I do. Furthermore, I would think you'd have more sense than that, Mycroft. This omega could be anyone. Wouldn’t want to sully the family name."

"Do give me some credit," Mycroft said mildly. He removed an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and slid it across the table. "Everything you need to know."

Sherlock looked at it briefly and was relieved that his hands were hidden beneath the table, as he couldn't repress the twitching that arose from his desire to grab the envelope and open it. He masked his face and looked up coldly. "I am surely the last person who should have children."

"If you had bothered to keep up with the world instead of hiding yourself away, you'd know we have already developed ways to deal with that. You are not the only one who can do research and play with chemicals." Mycroft produced a pill bottle and set it on the table beside the envelope. It was half-filled with several oblong green pills. "An omega taking these pills will be unable to become pregnant. They begin working immediately."

He pushed his chair back and stood up, looking intently at his younger brother. "I have been waiting a long time for someone to pique your interest," he said in a surprising moment of honesty. "Do not allow this chance to pass you by, Sherlock."

So said, he left, leaving Sherlock behind to stare at the envelope and pills with gritted teeth. All his life, he'd ignored that part of him as much as possible, refusing to let it interfere with his life. Aside from some experimentation in university, he had dealt with the occasional erection on his own and never entertained the thought of taking a beta, much less an omega. He'd been successful... until now. Of course, he could put thoughts of the omega aside, stay away from the boundaries of the pack's territory, and within a few weeks the omega would be claimed by someone else. It was a matter of time. It was what he should do.

But. Even though he hated it, the thought of that omega being claimed by anyone else was enough to inspire a flaring rage. Sherlock had seen him first, after all. He glanced at the envelope and, before he could stop himself, he grabbed it and tore it open. Several documents of papers fell out, covering the table. His eyes scanned them rapidly, greedily absorbing the information that was offered. It wasn't long before he found a name, and he released a slow breath, leaning back in his chair.

John Watson.

Ordinary, and yet... 

The blond wolf flashed through his mind again. He was obviously a created omega, not a born one, and that was unusual in itself. Sherlock wouldn’t need the pills – created omegas were sterile – though they’d be an additional comfort just in case. It was odd, though: any other omega who was that far into a heat would have been gagging for an alpha’s touch, but somehow, John Watson had resisted. It wasn’t very often that Sherlock met other wolves who could win the battle against canine instinct, particularly when the mind was blurred by a heat. This could be interesting. 

Slowly, his mouth curled into a hungry smile.

John Watson belonged to Sherlock Holmes, and tonight, it would be official.


	5. Chapter 5

John woke up on his bed, back in the building. The door was shut and he was alone. His stomach was growling and he felt grimy, but he remained still, staring blankly up at the ceiling for a few minutes as the memories of the night before washed over him. To be honest, he didn't remember much of anything after running away from that black wolf; his human instincts had been screaming for him to retreat and retreat he had as fast as his paws could carry him. Direction hadn’t been a concern. It was a wonder he had found his way back and not ended up in the middle of nowhere.

He shifted on the bed, sighing as the muscles in his arm cramped, and rubbed the wound absently. What... the hell... had that been about? He'd transformed in the past, of course, at the Centre. Most of the wolves there were pups or teachers. None of them had ever smelled like... like that. He half-thought, lying there, that he could still smell it. Rich and intoxicating, with just a hint of sweetness, smoky and heady and oh fuck running away instead of giving in had been the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, and that included recovering from being bitten in the first place.

And not just the scent, which was utterly addictive, but the way it had made him feel. John had wanted that wolf to pin him down and take him, wanted it like he wanted nothing else. Just imagining how good it would have felt made a sound that might have been a whimper lodge in his throat. There was a low, persistent coil of pleasure burning in his belly, and he felt restless, hot inside of his skin. It had been there since before he'd transformed, but the arrival of that other wolf had fanned the flames into a roaring inferno that was threatening to consume him whole. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t take it.

"What is happening to me?" he groaned, reaching down to take his cock in hand. The organ was completely hard already and almost painfully sensitive. He kept his touch light as he began to pull, his breathing picking up immediately. It felt good, there was no denying that, but it wasn't enough. This turned on, he should have been able to come within a handful of strokes, but no matter what he did, it _wasn't enough_.

And the burning was spreading. He thrashed and whimpered, strokes slowing as his arsehole clenched. He felt empty, he realized. As soon as the thought passed through his mind, he knew he had to rectify it. Even though he'd never done it before in his life, he wasted no time in placing his feet flat against the bed and thrusting his hips up so that he could slide his hand underneath, palming his buttocks. He pushed his fingers between his cheeks and frantically sought out his hole. His fingers encountered slippery wetness and he breathed out, too far gone to care about the abnormality as he pressed two inside.

"Oh GOD." The choked cry fell from his lips as his head tilted back. Good wasn't enough to describe how it felt. He began to fuck himself against his hand, sliding in a third finger within seconds, thrusting back against the pressure as fast as he could. His hole was loose, swallowing up his fingers, and he squirmed as his orgasm finally began to build.

Yet even though the intrusion of his fingers made the feelings more intense, he still felt unfulfilled. He was intensely aware that it was his own hand, and even three fingers weren't enough; they weren't what he craved. Desperate, he rolled over and curled in on himself, both hands moving frantically. The awkward position forced his head down towards his stomach and he caught a faint whiff of that mesmerizing scent. It rushed over him and his mouth watered, hole tightening, cock stiffening, before he gave a choked cry and came.

John panted and groaned with the force of it, his body shaking and shuddering as he painted his belly and the sheets beside him with ropes of seed. The orgasm should have made him feel better, but it didn't. It felt like drinking a cup of tea that was four hours cold when you were expecting a fresh cup, and it did nothing to satisfy his craving. 

He slumped back against the bed, feeling weary. The burning was only slightly sated. His whole body still ached and throbbed for the want of something, and his hole spasmed as he removed his hand. Immediately, he found himself wriggling, fighting against the urge to replace his fingers. But the feeling of emptiness was so strange, so unexpected, that he was able to overcome the desire. Instead, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed to remove the temptation.

"What the bloody...?" His voice trailed off because, as he went to drop his head into his hands, he remembered the strange secretion that had lubed up his hole without any effort on his part. John stared at his three fingers, at the shiny substance that coated them. Gingerly, he rubbed them together. The fluid was sticky and clear and it smelled of musk. He stood up, realizing that his thighs were streaked with more of it, and when he turned around there was a large damp spot on the mattress behind him.

John stared at the spot, his heart pounding. Even as he stood there, he could feel the burn returning and increasing, the desire to be filled making him throb. More fluid oozed down the backs of his legs. He closed his eyes and passed a shaking hand over his face. What was happening to him? And why? He needed an explanation... he needed...

He needed someone to help. But there wasn’t anyone that he felt could be trusted. Harry and his old army buddies wouldn’t know a damn thing about werewolves, and though Ella had given him her number, he wasn’t going to be calling her no matter how desperate he got. That left... Hope surged through him when he spotted his bag, with the pamphlets from the Centre right on top. For the first time, he grabbed them with the intent of scouring every single one until he had some kind of solution to his problem. There was no way he was going to live like this.


	6. Chapter 6

The information gleaned from the pamphlets had been… well, informative, if somewhat frightening. John leaned on his cane as he tapped his way down the pavement, though not quite as heavily as he might have the day before. It probably wasn’t really all that safe for him to be out, but he could take care of himself and he desperately needed to clear his mind. Everything was swirling together in a cacophony that made it difficult to think.

He’d known he was an omega already, knew he couldn’t pregnant, but that was about it. He’d listened to that recording of the session with Elsa again, particularly the portion where she mentioned that high stress situations could trigger heat in even changed omegas. And once that happened, it could be only the one time or it could happen repeatedly. Heat periods usually lasted for anywhere from five to ten days, depending on the circumstances, such as whether there was an alpha around to help.

John shivered. The thought of becoming a blinding slave to his hormones for several days every three months was, frankly, nothing short of horrifically disturbing. It was one more thing to hate about how his life had changed. But at least it explained why he had been feeling the way he was, and why that wolf had been so appealing. An alpha. John was bloody fortunate he hadn’t been pinned down then and there. According to the Centre, most alphas tended to lose their minds around omegas in heat. John being out and about during a heat was asking for trouble.

He shifted, waiting for the traffic to stop. It was also uncomfortable. He was very conscious of a feeling of emptiness that plagued him with every step. The burning had not stopped, though it had, momentarily, settled. The thought of several more days trapped in this hellish state of dissatisfaction was not appealing in the least. But the alternative was finding an alpha to fuck him silly, and that was… well, he wouldn’t deny it was appealing in a base sense but beyond that, it didn’t bear thinking about. He supposed it was just one more thing he’d have to live with.

There was a crime scene on, he noticed vaguely as he crossed the street. Loads of people standing ‘round, watching a body that wouldn’t be getting back up. Better to stay away from it, distraction though it would be. He turned left instead, intending to find somewhere cheap to have a quick meal, and never noticed the dark head snapping up until it was too late.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The voice hit him before the smell. It was deep, the kind of voice that would cut straight through even a large crowd. It was swiftly followed by the same heady, luxurious scent that John had wanked himself off to no less than a handful of hours earlier. He froze, torn between bolting without stopping to look and turning around. It was tempting to make a run for it, but his legs wouldn’t move.

And then he twisted, unable to keep himself from looking. The alpha standing right behind him was not quite a full head taller than John, with a head of dark curly hair and fringe which hung above the palest eyes John had ever seen. He was slender, but not skinny, and dressed in a suit that no doubt cost more than two months worth of John’s army pension.

“Sorry?” John’s voice cracked. His mouth was watering and if he thought he’d been feeling empty before, it was nothing compared to now. 

“Were you in Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man repeated.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you - ” The question died when the alpha stepped forward and placed a hand on John’s lower back. That one touch sent all of his senses into overdrive. His cock swelled immediately and he could feel fluid beginning to dribble down his thighs. It took everything he had to lock his knees into place to stop them from giving out on him when that hand began guiding him forward. He moved obediently and by the time he fought his way out of the pheromone-induced haze, he was standing over a dead body.

“Tell me,” that deep voice rumbled into his ear.

John shivered. Jesus Christ. “Tell you what?”

A long finger pointed to the body. He tried not to think about how good that finger would’ve felt inside him as he followed it, looking down at the corpse. It was a young man, lying on his back. The back of his head had been smashed in and there was a pool of blood around him. He was wearing a uniform that was similar to the one packed away in the back of John’s closet, only it was ill-fitting, and not just in the ‘lost-some-weight’ way. The shirt was at least three sizes too big and the sleeves were too long. So were the pants. John’s head cleared slightly as the military doctor took over.

“He died of blunt force trauma, I would guess,” he muttered. “But there are bruises on his neck and arms. Suggests he fought with someone before he died.” He would have liked to have knelt to get a closer look, but he was well aware of the fact that if he got down on his hands and knees it would end with him presenting his arse to the alpha standing not an inch away. Just the thought of it made him squirm restlessly. “He… ah… that’s not his uniform. It belonged to someone else.”

“Go on.” Warm breath gushed over the back of John’s neck. It took considerable effort to keep himself standing. He wondered why he was there, why he hadn’t taken off running yet. But God - it was so good even just being near an alpha.

“I…” He sounded like someone was strangling him. 

“Are you done yet, Freak?”

John looked around, relieved for the distraction. A woman had popped up beside them without his notice and she was staring, narrow-eyed, at the alpha. She was a werewolf, but a beta, he realized. There was a bland sort of smell coming from her that did very little for him, nothing like the over-powering scent radiating from behind him.

Suddenly, her eyes focused on John and her jaw dropped. “Who’s this? You can’t just bring anyone here!”

“He’s my assistant,” the alpha said.

“Your assis - hang on.” The woman took a step closer and inhaled deeply. “He’s an omega! And he’s in heat! Have you bloody well lost your damn mind?” 

The alpha stiffened and a low growl escaped into the air. John shivered. Another man approached instantly, this one vaguely familiar, though John couldn’t place him. He had greying hair and warm brown eyes and he approached with the kind of caution you’d normally afford a wild animal. Which, all things considered, an alpha around an unbonded omega in heat might very well be. 

“Sherlock, go home,” he said. “Text me your conclusions, alright?”

“No need.” The alpha - Sherlock? - closed the space between him and John, pressing himself solidly along John’s back. John’s knees buckled at the feel of that cock pressing against his lower back. It felt enormous. His entire lower half throbbed with wanting and he choked back a whimper.

“Sherlock,” the man said warningly.

“This is not your victim, Lestrade. I’ve just had an army doctor confirm that.” He sounded smug as one possessive hand rested on John’s hip. “Even someone without the years of experience you claim to have can see that the uniform does not belong to him. He’s not an army man. Lacks any of the discipline or training. Yet if you look into his background you’ll see that he’s always had a fascination with the army. Probably was kicked out or rejected when he was younger. It got out of hand and he decided to steal the uniform to make his fantasy complete. As you can see, it went poorly for him when the would-be victim retaliated. That is an attempted murder gone wrong. Surely you can take it from here?”

Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine, just go.”

Sherlock went.

And he took John with him.


	7. Chapter 7

As the cab pulled away, John sent the man that was seated next to him a cautious look. There was a good foot or so of space between them and that was helping to clear his mind somewhat, enough to recognize that he had just willingly jumped into a cab with someone who was a perfect stranger and an alpha. Likely not the best decision he had ever made.

"You have questions," Sherlock observed without turning his head. "Ask them."

"Who are you?" John burst out, not waiting for a second invitation. 

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective." The words were spoken simply, like John should've known what they meant. 

He didn't. "A consulting detective? Wait, no, what I really want to know is why you brought me along with you. And where are we going, anyway?"

Sherlock finally turned his head and looked at John. There was a predatory glint in those pale blue/green/silver eyes that made John feel weak. His pants and trousers felt soaked from the fluid that had been steadily leaking from his entrance, and he was so empty that it hurt. He shivered as Sherlock took a deep breath before responding.

"I know everything I need to know about you," Sherlock replied at last, seemingly ignoring John’s questions. "You're a military man with no family. One sibling that you don't get along well with. You were invalided home after being bitten and that’s left you lost. You have no idea how to deal with being a wolf."

John stared at him, indignation cutting through the haze. "You've read my file!"

"Correct," Sherlock said, not sounding overly apologetic. "But I could've ascertained many, if not all, of those things merely by looking at you. For example, I know that while your therapist thinks your limp is purely psychosomatic, it's caused in part by the fact that you haven't yet learned to disassociate your canine and human minds. You limp as a wolf and thus you limp as a human." He smiled humourlessly. "You were a doctor but you're also a soldier. You've had advanced training. You feel capable of handling yourself even though you're in heat, which will draw any alphas that are around. It also tells me that you have very little knowledge of being a wolf since you evidently don't understand the lengths an alpha would go to to claim you."

"You... that was amazing." John's eyes were wide. Ella had never once connected the idea that his limp might be related to his wolf form, but now that Sherlock had pointed it out, it made an astonishing amount of sense. He looked down at his leg before returning his gaze to Sherlock. "That was... extraordinary."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and frowned slightly, then shook his head. "As for where we're going, we're returning to my flat. 221b Baker Street."

He tensed slightly. "Your flat."

"I believe that is what I just said. You will have a choice, John."

"A choice?" Even though he knew it was annoying Sherlock, John couldn't seem to stop himself from repeating everything the man said.

"Yes. If you so desire, I will get out of the cab and it will take you home. I will not seek you out on nights of the full moon. You'll never see me again," said Sherlock.

John felt a pang. "Or?"

"Or..." A little flicker of gold flared in Sherlock's eyes and his voice emerged as a husky rumble that John felt in his cock. "You'll come up to my flat and I will fuck you senseless until your heat ends."

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. John's cock went from half hard to fully erect and aching within the span of about five seconds. He gasped for breath. "I don't... don't want..." Then, thinking that Sherlock might take it as a rejection of the latter, he added, "But I do... I just..." His brain had apparently forgotten how to form full sentences and it was immensely frustrating.

Fortunately, Sherlock seemed to know what he was trying to say. "I won't bond with you," he said smoothly. "At the end of your heat, you'll be free to go your separate way. Do you agree?"

"Oh God yes," John moaned, blazing heat writhing through his core. He'd had one-night stands before, though not since his university days, and the thought of having someone to help deal with this persistent, throbbing heat that was plaguing his body was too good to pass up. It was a good thing that the cabbie stopped at that moment, or he might very well have thrown himself across the seat.

Sherlock tossed a handful of bills in the front seat and hustled John out of the cab. He opened the door of 221 and took the stairs two at a time. John followed, forgetting all about using his cane in his rush. No sooner had he entered the flat then Sherlock had him up against the door, pinning John there with his lanky frame and two strong, possessive hands placed firmly over John's hips. He growled low in his chest, the deep rumble making a whimper escape John before he could stop it. 

"Sherlock, please," he pleaded, squirming. "I can't take it anymore. Please make it stop."

"I know what you want," Sherlock murmured. "And I'm going to give it to you until you can't sit, much less walk. Strip, John." He backed off a step, eyes flashing entirely golden with a raw, searing hunger. "Strip _now_."

John's hands were shaking as he gripped the bottom of his jumper and hauled it over his head. There was no self-consciousness on his part, not right now. He got rid of his shoes, trousers and pants as fast as he could, standing entirely naked in the middle of the flat. He was trembling as Sherlock looked him over, feeling exposed and raw as that knowing gaze took in every inch of him and laid him bare. 

"John." Sherlock uttered the name in the form of a feral groan. He reached out and grabbed John, bringing their bodies close. John knew he was leaking pre-ejaculate all over Sherlock's no doubt hideously expensive trousers, but he couldn't have cared less as Sherlock claimed his mouth in a passionate kiss. At the same time, two fingers slipped between his cheeks and slid easily into the warm, receptive heat of his hole.

John cried out and bucked forward. Sherlock's fingers were long and slender, touching places inside of him that his own shorter fingers had been unable to reach. It felt bloody amazing and he whined, unconsciously grinding back against the sensation, but it still wasn't enough. He broke the kiss and gasped out, "More. I need more. Please."

"Get down on your hands and knees on the rug," Sherlock commanded, sliding his fingers free. John gave another low whine at the loss but eagerly followed the order, ignoring the twinge of pain from his shoulder that came from moving so quickly. He was kneeling in no time at all, dispensing his weight evenly between his hands and knees. The position left him vulnerable and _open_ and he nearly sobbed out loud when Sherlock knelt behind him and cool hands pried him open, bearing his entrance further.

"Please, please, please," he begged, digging his hands into the carpet. "Please, Sherlock. It hurts. Fuck, I think I'm going to go crazy if you don't make it stop!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Wouldn't want that." There was the sound of a zip and then something large and blunt was pressing to John's hole. He gasped raggedly, shuddering, as his entrance easily accepted the intrusion, parting to accept Sherlock's cock. Sherlock kept pressing forward, easing himself in inch by inch, until his balls rested against John's arse. He was almost fully inside except for the knot. 

"Christ almighty," John gasped, putting his head down. So close. He was so close. The burning was nearly entirely sated, all but for a small but agonizing portion that was located even more deeply inside him than Sherlock was currently reaching. "More!"

"Take this."

"What?" The command was so unexpected that John opened his eyes. Sherlock was holding a pill in front of him. He stared at it blankly.

"It's a birth control pill. It will keep you from getting pregnant."

"But changed omegas can't - "

"John."

That one word, spoken in that voice, was enough. John grabbed the pill and swallowed it - honestly, what could it hurt to have extra protection against something that he didn't want anyway? - and then looked over his shoulder. "There, I took the damn pill. Now _fuck me_."

Sherlock smirked. "As you wish."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this chapter the story rating officially moves up to Explicit.

John was not inexperienced with sex. Even though it had been a while, he hadn't earned the name "Three-Continents Watson" in the army for nothing. But he could honestly say that he had never felt like this before. His whole body was one solid burn. It was like there was heat running through his veins, boiling his blood, and he felt almost frantic with the desire to come. If he'd thought for even a second that clawing his skin apart would've helped, would've made it stop, he'd have done it. Instead he whined, trying to shove back against Sherlock, but the tight grip on his hips prevented him from moving. 

"Relax," Sherlock hissed behind him, easing out slowly. He pushed back in, the force of the momentum shoving John forward. He gasped and braced himself seconds before he would’ve topped onto his face, planting his hands more squarely against the floor as Sherlock settled into a steady rhythm, pulling back until he was almost out before plunging back in. John was more than lubricated enough to make the slide easy; the normal burn that would've been present from not having had sex for some time was nearly non-existent. He groaned under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut, meeting Sherlock thrust for thrust. Both of them were too frantic to want to take things slowly. 

And oh God, it was so _good_. John squirmed, seeking as much friction as he could, and panted. He'd been wound up for the past day and he knew he was going to approach his peak quickly. Desperately, he hoped that it would be more satisfying this time, because he didn't think he could take several more days of being trapped in this hell. He dropped his head, gasping for breath, and resolved that next time he was going to be in a position that allowed him to stroke his cock at the same time. "Harder, Sherlock. Harder. Oh - fuck - please!"

Sherlock's hands tightened on his hips to the point where it actually hurt and he began to thrust with more force, changing his angle slightly so that every time his cock entered John the tip dragged over his prostate, resulting in a yelp from John that only spurred him on. He growled, feeling his own orgasm approaching, and leaned forward, mouthing at the back of John’s neck, nipping dangerously at the skin. 

"Do you want me to knot you?" he asked. The only hint that he was straining to keep his composure was the way his voice trembled ever so slightly at the end of his question.

"Yes, God yes," John sobbed, feeling teeth graze the back of his neck. It was an action that set off an internal alarm somewhere deep inside his mind, but he was too focused on the pleasure to really pay any attention. "Do it, please."

Sherlock groaned and pushed forward at the same time that he pulled John back, forcing his knot past the sensitive rim and putting him fully inside John's body just as he came. John arched his back as the last agonizing, throbbing spot inside of him, that one little place that had been driving him the maddest of all, was finally filled. He could feel Sherlock's seed pulsing through his body and oh holy fuck, it was like having an addiction and finally getting a hit, like being in pain and finally getting a dose of medication. He cried out helplessly as his own orgasm overtook him without his cock ever getting a single stroke.

For a couple of minutes, there was only the sound of their combined harsh breathing filling the room. Sherlock sat back on his heels, bringing John with him so that his omega was resting in his lap. John was shaking, his body trembling, but he leaned back against Sherlock’s chest willingly. He stared unseeingly at the ropes of seed that had been sprayed across the rug. His body felt sated, finally, but he could feel the burn lingering, stirring in the back of his mind, temporarily sated but just waiting for the chance to fan into a flame once more.

"How often does this happen?" he asked somewhat dazedly, resting his hands on his thighs. Sherlock's arm was wound around his waist, keeping him firmly in place, not that he could have gone somewhere. The knot was still swollen inside of him. He wriggled experimentally, just to see - and nope, he definitely wasn't moving. 

"I've never been with an omega," Sherlock rasped. His forehead was resting against John's neck, lips brushing against the heated skin as he spoke. "But from what I've heard, it could be as often as every hour while you're at the peak of your heat."

"Jesus Christ," John muttered, wondering if he'd live to see the end of the heat at this rate. He stiffened when Sherlock rocked forward with a low groan and then gasped as he felt more warmth being pulsed inside of him. One, two, three jets - it wasn't quite enough to set off another orgasm, but it was easily one of the hottest and most intimate things he'd ever been a part of. He started to shiver and couldn't stop.

Sherlock muttered a curse and threw a long arm out, grabbing at something that had been lying on the couch. He pulled it closer and swung it around John, covering him from his neck down. It was a dressing gown, John realized, sliding his hands into the glossy fabric. And it smelled like Sherlock. For some reason he didn't really want to contemplate, that was extremely reassuring, being surrounded by Sherlock on all sides. He dropped his chin so that his mouth and nose were partially covered by the dressing gown as he felt Sherlock surge for the third time.

"This is the weirdest thing I've ever done," he said.

"And yet you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock gasped, finally sliding out. John felt the loss immediately even as he automatically slid forward onto his knees. He twisted around and looked at Sherlock.

"Something tells me that invading Afghanistan was nothing compared to this," he replied wryly, automatically checking the skin on the back of his neck. He remembered now that one of the pamphlets had mentioned that a bite to the back of the neck during knotting would bond an alpha and omega together. Something about the exchange of saliva and blood during the intimate act. He hoped that Sherlock would have the self-control to avoid biting him... even though a small part of him was starting to wonder if that would be such a bad thing.

But no. That was just the heat talking. He sighed and rubbed his head. Already the burning was beginning to build into a slow throb. He slipped a hand underneath the dressing robe and took his cock in hand, realizing that he was half-hard already. And it hadn't even been a full half hour. How long would it take before the burning became truly unbearable? He didn’t really want to find out. "I thought you said it could be an hour?"

"Emphasis on could be. Every omega is different." Sherlock's eyes were pinned to John's crotch. John followed his gaze and realized that he'd been absently stroking his cock. He groaned, knowing that though it felt pleasurable, it wouldn’t be enough to give him what he needed, and looked up at Sherlock.

"Oh, just get over here and fuck me again already."


	9. Chapter 9

John quickly lost count of how many times he and Sherlock had fucked. As moonrise grew closer, both of them, but Sherlock in particular, became more feral, resulting in numerous scratches and bruises that turned pale and tanned skin alike into a mottled canvas. Finally, it was just too much, and John couldn’t stay awake any longer; the combination of prolonged sexual activity and a lack of sleep and food became too much for him to handle. He fell asleep before Sherlock’s knot had even allowed the man to slip free from his body.

The feeling of the change woke him up. As the lingering feeling of pain slipped away, he opened his eyes and raised his head, disoriented. Sherlock was sitting a few feet away, staring at him, already perfect calm and composed. John blinked up at him and yawned, stretching cramped muscles, before he sat up with a toss of his head as the large black wolf sidled closer to him. He held still as Sherlock nudged the wound on his shoulder and licked it. The damp warmth made John shiver and he snuffled sleepily.

Sherlock rumbled and nudged him harder in the side. Catching the hint, John stood and limped down the hall into what must have been Sherlock’s bedroom. Had he been human, he would have raised an eyebrow, but he entered willingly enough and looked around. The room was moderately sized, containing only a large bed that was surrounded by several stacks of books and what appeared to be various knick knacks. Interesting, but the sound of the door slamming shut behind him ruined any curiosity he might have felt.

John spun around but it was too late. Instantly he realized what must have happened: Sherlock had used his paws or his snout to push the door shut. He dashed over to the door and whined loudly when he realized that there was no way he was getting out as a wolf. He was trapped until the sun rose. What the hell was Sherlock playing at, locking him in here for the duration of the night? If John had been human, he would’ve been swearing at Sherlock for being a bastard and at himself for foolishly trusting the first alpha that came along.

He hadn’t experienced many full moons as a wolf, but that was easily the worst. It only took about an hour for the burning to start to return, but this time he had no way of assuaging it and that made it worse than ever. John jumped up onto the bed - Sherlock could accept the blond wolf fur that would be left behind and like it - and curled into a tight ball, whimpering. Knowing that there was an answer to his problem right outside but being unable to get to it was like torture.

The hours passed agonizingly slowly. At one point he thought he heard Sherlock scratching and whining frantically at the door, but he was too far gone to care. The burning throb was merciless even as a wolf. The sheets underneath his body were soaked and his cock ached, bordering on real pain, but no amount of rutting against the bed was enough. He leapt down off of the bed and paced back and forth, panting. The room seemed to be too hot but there was no way for him to escape. He whined loudly and pressed his clenching hole back against the bed in an attempt to get some friction. But the coarse sheets only teased his sensitive opening, making the desperate emptiness that much worse, and he whimpered pitifully. If Sherlock could’ve gotten to him, he would’ve forgiven the man instantly.

Finally - _finally_ \- the moon fell, the sun rose, and he collapsed as the change overtook him. It was the bang of the door flying open and Sherlock barrelling inside that woke him up. He didn’t even have time to demand an explanation before Sherlock picked him up, dropped him on the bed, and climbed on, kneeling between John’s legs. Sherlock looked somewhat deranged, John noticed hazily, but he couldn’t really be bothered to care as Sherlock parted his legs and slid home in one easy thrust.

“Jesus,” John gasped, arching his back. His cock rubbed against Sherlock’s stomach with every short, furious thrust and in seconds he was coming, unable to even think of holding back after the hellish night he’d just spent. Sherlock cried out and came a moment later, his hips twitching as he forced himself deeply inside of John. He caught himself with his hands before he could fall forward onto John, his chest heaving.

“What the bloody fuck was that about?” John asked when he could speak. Somehow, his arms had found their way around Sherlock’s shoulders, preventing the man from moving. It was good - and then Sherlock tentatively rested his full weight on top of John and that felt better.

“Omegas are more fertile in their wolf form,” Sherlock answered, resting his head in the curve of John’s collarbone. He was breathing harshly and the strain of the long night was visible in the way that his muscles were tense. It had nearly driven him mad knowing that an omega he had already tasted had been so close. “If you were to conceive a child, that’s when it would happen.”

“I’m not able to get pregnant,” he pointed out testily, groaning when Sherlock came for a second time. The pulse of warm seed into his body was like heaven. He squirmed closer and gave a shuddering sigh. “And you gave me that pill you said was birth control.”

“You should know something about me, John. Never trust my brother.” Warm lips teased the flesh on John’s throat briefly before Sherlock levered himself up with his hands, though they remained connected. “Children are not in my plan. Until there is proof from a place that is more credited than the Centre that you are not able to get pregnant, I am not willing to take any chances. Mycroft’s obsession in life is to see me bonded and with children. I wouldn’t put it past him to lie about the contents of the pill.” He hesitated briefly and then added, “I assumed you felt the same way.”

“I do, but… Oh god…” he trailed off, eyes fluttering shut as he felt the third pulsing washing his insides. Almost like water being thrown on a fire, he thought somewhat giddily. It was difficult to make his mind focus again. “What was… what was in the pills then?”

“I’ll analyze them later,” Sherlock muttered. His eyes were alight with a strange burning as he looked down at John. Unexpectedly, he swooped down, taking John’s lips in a frantic kiss. John kissed him back eagerly, moaning softly as he felt Sherlock beginning to swell inside of him without ever having eased himself out. He thrust upwards, seeking to get more friction against his cock. After the night he’d had, one time was not going to be nearly enough.

“Again, Sherlock,” he demanded. “More!”

Sherlock chuckled and pulled back until the tip of his cock was resting at John’s entrance. He pushed in smoothly, the natural lubricant making it easy, and wrapped his hand around John’s cock, stroking in time to his thrusts. John let out a choked sound and groaned, his hands digging into the sheets. It was the first time Sherlock had touched his shaft and having those long fingers wrapped around him made everything so much more intense. Breathing hard, Sherlock shifted and changed his angle slightly and _oh damn that was it_. 

“Sherlock! Oh fuck – Sherlock!”

“John, you’re so _tight_. I can’t – ”

“Jesus, harder!” John begged. “God, Sherlock, you’re so beautiful. I can’t – oh god – oh Sherlock…” Whatever else he had been about to say was lost as his orgasm rushed over him. Distantly he heard Sherlock groaning and then warmth flooded through him, prolonging his orgasm, sending a wave of blinding lights washing across his vision. He fell back against the bed and Sherlock collapsed on top of him again, both of them struggling for breath.

“Don’t ever… fucking… do that… again…” John gasped.

Sherlock looked at him. There was an odd expression on his face for just a moment before he said, “I won’t.”


	10. Chapter 10

On what would have been the morning of the sixth day of his heat, technically only his fourth with Sherlock, John woke up feeling sore from head to toe. His whole body ached in a pleasant way that was bordering on painful; muscles that he didn’t even know could hurt gave a twinge of discomfort when he finally forced himself into a seated position. He was still on Sherlock’s bed, where he’d been for the past - Christ, he didn’t even remember how many hours it had been. He hadn’t even left except for food and the occasional trip to the loo.

There was no sign of Sherlock but John could still smell him everywhere so that was alright. And his heat was over, he could tell. The burning and throbbing was completely absent for the first time in nearly a week. He felt back to normal for the most part, if more well-fucked than he’d ever been in his whole life. There was a decidedly stupid smile on his face when he glanced into the mirror and he decided that it was probably a good thing Sherlock wasn’t around.

The hot water eased the ache in his muscles considerably. He wasn’t even limping by the time he emerged, wrapped in a dressing gown that must have been Sherlock’s. It was far too long at both the hem and along the sleeves - he had to roll them up a little to keep them from slipping over his hands all the time - and it only just closed at the front, but it would do. He started to shuffle into the kitchen and then paused when he realized that Sherlock was lying on the couch.

John stared at him, feeling slightly awkward. He didn’t really know this man. Sherlock was essentially a stranger for all that he’d spend the past four days with his cock up John’s arse. “Tea?” he asked finally.

“Yes.”

It was all Sherlock said. John shrugged, turned, and made his way into the kitchen, which was a bloody mess. There were chemicals all over the place, some of them in unsealed beakers, and chemistry equipment covered every surface. John poked around until he found a usable kettle (the first one appeared to have something distinctly green and foul smelling growing on the bottom) and two mugs. All the same, he washed them thoroughly before he poured fresh water into boil. By the time he’d hunted up some teabags, the water was boiling. The smell of fresh tea as it steeped was soothing and he sighed, relishing the fragrance. His senses were still hyper-sensitive and he was very aware of Sherlock’s scent surrounding him. Combined with the tea, John could have happily stood there all day.

Eventually, he opened the refridgerator and looked inside. No milk, and he wasn’t sure he trusted the open bag of sugar on the counter. Fine. He shrugged and picked up the mugs, carrying them into the other room. He set one of them down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and then sat down in the closest chair. It felt good to rest; he was tired, having gotten very little sleep for obvious reasons, and even making tea had exhausted him more than he had been expecting. He settled into the chair, cupped his hands around the mug, and breathed deeply, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Do you enjoy the violin?”

It took him a minute to realize that Sherlock had spoken, and then to process the words. John blinked fuzzily. “What?”

“The violin. Does it bother you that I play?”

“Err… no, I suppose not.”

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. And I keep body parts around the flat. That shouldn’t bother you, surely, being that you’re a doctor.” Sherlock finally opened his eyes and sat up, all hard lines and graceful movements. “Of course, you know that I’m an alpha.” A smirk quirked the corner of his lip. “I don’t tolerate other alphas intruding into my territory, not that you’d know any, but potential flatmates should know the worst about each other ahead of time. Anything I should know?” He looked at John with the kind of expression that said ‘I already know it all but go on, try to surprise me, I could use a laugh’.

“Potential flatmates? Are you… asking me to move in with you?” John asked in disbelief.

Sherlock just kept looking at him, and when John just stared back, he rolled his eyes. “You’re staying at one of the Centre’s outreach buildings, aren’t you? You hate it there. You’ll be looking for a flat soon but you haven’t got a source of income besides a pension right now. Can’t afford much. Fortunately I get 221b at an excellent rate. The two of us will be able to afford it easily.”

“How did you… no, never mind.” John was too exhausted to try to follow what would no doubt be a bewildering, head-spinning line of deductions. He tried to think. Sherlock was different from anyone he’d ever met, but then, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. He was an alpha, which could be dangerous for the long term, but wasn’t it better to stick with the enemy you knew? John certainly wouldn’t mind if Sherlock helped him out with any other heats that might arise. He snuck a quick look at Sherlock and flushed at the knowing gaze in those exotic eyes. Right then. “Fine. Sounds good to me.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock flopped back down onto the couch.

John finished his tea and took the mug into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock’s un-touched mug on the table in the case the man wanted it later. He went back down the hall into Sherlock’s bedroom - their bedroom? Would they be sleeping together? - and made a face at the mess on the bed. The sheets desperately needed to be changed but even the thought of doing that made him feel desperately tired. He didn’t even realize he was swaying until he hit the wall behind him.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. The tremor was back, he noticed distantly, though he didn’t really care. He stripped the sheets off of the bed and tossed them into the corner. Then he collapsed onto the mattress and fell asleep immediately.

Later, he would be aware of people in the room, of an unfamiliar voice scolding softly. An older woman was admonishing someone as strong arms scooped him up. John tensed, the soldier in him rising to the surface immediately, but then Sherlock’s scent surrounded him. The soft, sweet scent of rain, the sharp tang of unknown chemicals, laced with tea and something indefinable, like London itself, all combined with something that was uniquely Sherlock, something that called to him. He turned his head, pressing his nose to a warm patch of skin, and sighed, sliding easily back into sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

When John first woke up, he thought that the voice of the older woman and the arms that had held him so strongly might have been dream. He discovered that they hadn’t been when he realized that the dressing robe he’d worn to bed was gone, leaving him naked, and that the mattress he’d been lying on was now covered in freshly washed sheets and blankets. The robe had been tossed precariously over a stack of books that looked like they were one good gust of wind from falling over. John picked it up carefully and tied it around his body as he ventured out to investigate.

Sherlock was gone. It was late, later than he’d thought, so that wasn’t entirely unexpected. He sat down on the same chair as before, noticing absently that the mug of tea he’d made for Sherlock was still untouched on the coffee table, and wondered what to do next. He remembered that there hadn’t been much food around when he’d been searching for tea; clearly, Sherlock was a fan of restaurants and takeaways. He patted his growling stomach absently, wondering if he should go out or if it would be better to wait for Sherlock to return. For that matter, where were his clothes?

The door edged open a moment later. John looked up. An older woman with greying hair stood in the doorway, holding a tray heaped high with biscuits, bacon sandwiches, and tea. She smiled broadly at John. “Hello, dear. Sherlock said you would be getting up now.”

John blinked, trying not to drool as a host of wonderful smells wafted across the room. “He did?”

“Yes. I’m not your housekeeper, mind, but I knew you’d be hungry and Sherlock doesn’t keep much food in the flat. He really needs to learn to take better care of his mate.” She clucked her tongue and sashayed into the kitchen.

“Mate? Hang on, I’m not his - ”

“D’you take milk or sugar in your tea, dear?”

“Milk, please – listen, I’m not, not his mate.” John stood up and followed, a frown tugging at his lips. “It’s not like that.”

She was smiling. “Of course, dear,” she said in a patronizing manner. “Now, I’m Mrs Hudson, your new landlady. It’s so nice to know that Sherlock will have company, finally. Sometimes I don’t see him for days on end and I do worry.” She bustled around, fetching him tea, putting some food on a plate, and ushering him into a chair at the table. “I try my best to take care of him, of course, but even someone much younger than me would have a hard time keeping up with Sherlock.”

In between bites of bacon and listening half-heartedly to what she was saying, John lifted his head. It was still odd to be able to sniff someone and know instantly what they were; it was like his brain had developed a very precise system of categorizing scents without his permission. Mrs Hudson, he realized, was a human, not a wolf. Her scent was faint but wholesome, kind of the way he would have imagined his mum would have smelled. He looked at her.

“You mentioned that Sherlock knew I’d be getting up at this time,” he said slowly, remembering how he and Sherlock had met. The crime scene and the body that gone along with it, not to mention the way Sherlock could look at someone and know - just everything. At the time he’d been too out of his mind with sexual frustration to really question it, but now he looked at her curiously. “Mrs Hudson, what exactly does Sherlock do for a living?”

“I couldn’t really say, dear,” she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand as she moved into the other room. John frowned, but before he had the chance to ask her anything else, she returned holding his freshly washed clothing. “Here you are. Sherlock said you'd have some things to do today."

"But _how_ did he..." John glanced up to see that Mrs Hudson was already gone. For a human, she moved fast, he realized, sighing and turning his attention back to his breakfast. He ate a little more and then put the rest of the food away. 

It didn't take him long to decide what he'd do. He was curious about Sherlock, curious enough that retrieving his laptop and the rest of his belongings so that he could research the man sounded like an excellent idea. He dressed quickly and left the flat, hailing a cab with little trouble and directing the cabbie to take him back to the outreach. It wasn't until he was climbing out of the cab that he realized he'd forgotten his cane, which was likely somewhere in Sherlock's flat - _their_ flat, he reminded himself firmly. Then he shook his head in bemusement. Why had he agreed to share a flat with a man who he knew nothing about, aside from the fact that he was a fantastic fuck?

"Harry was right. That bite did mess with my mind," he muttered, moving up the steps and opening the door. Mary was stationed at the desk, as always, but she was chatting with a couple of people he hadn't seen before. One was a petite redhead with a sweet smile, the other a dark-haired man with a rather possessive grip on the redhead's hip.

"Oh, Dr Watson!" Mary said with a cheerful smile. "You're back."

"I've come to collect my things."

"You've found a place already!" Her smile grew as he approached and then she gasped. "Oh, you've found an _alpha_! How wonderful!"

John's cheeks flushed slightly. "It's not like that," he said for the third time that morning. He had the feeling he'd be saying it a lot from then on.

"This is Dr John Watson, that new wolf I was telling you about," Mary said, completely ignoring his comment in favour of looking at her friends. "Dr Watson, this is my cousin Molly and her boyfriend, Jim. Molly works at Bart's. I thought you'd like to meet her."

"Oh really?" John said with a friendly smile, shaking her hand. "That was my alma matter. I expect it's changed a fair amount."

Molly smiled. "I couldn't really say."

John turned to Jim and was surprised to find a set of unnervingly dark eyes studying him. He held out a hand automatically and Jim grabbed it, squeezing tightly. "Good to meet you," John said.

"You too, Dr Watson," Jim said softly, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You too."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my absence; my sister got married and RL hit me like a ton of bricks, basically. I'm still here and haven't forgotten!

Living with Sherlock Holmes was nothing at all like what John had been expecting. For one thing, the man hadn't been kidding when he said that there were days when he wouldn't talk. He just hadn’t mentioned that those days would also involve taking the whole sofa and staring off into space, or, on occasion, at John. And by the time John had returned to the flat with his things, Sherlock was already there, curled up on the sofa in a ball, staring pensively at the ceiling. He didn't respond when John tried to speak to him and eventually, after the first few times of being ignored, John gave up. He took his things into Sherlock's bedroom - their bedroom? - and then went shopping for enough food to tide them (him) over for a little while.

Sherlock didn't move from the sofa for a good three days. He rejected the food and most of the cups of tea that John set down by his arm, only deigning to drink from the occasional cup. Sometimes at night John would hear the harsh, grating sound of a tortured violin, but he never ventured out to check and Sherlock was always back on the sofa by dawn. Finally, John got tired of it. He planted himself in front of Sherlock and just stood there, staring intently. It only took a few minutes before Sherlock's eyes slid in his direction. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face.

"Can I help you?" he asked at last.

"Yes, actually," John said. "It's been three days, Sherlock. I want to know who you are and what you do and... well, yes." He stopped himself before admitting that he wanted to know _why_ he was there when Sherlock had made it a point to say that the two of them would be going their own ways after the heat was done. Instead, Sherlock had talked him into moving in and here he was still sleeping in the bedroom but did that mean anything if Sherlock hadn't joined him once? 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before letting out an aggrieved, put-upon sigh. He sat up, all coiled muscles and tightly wound grace, and swung his legs around to the ground. "I'm a consulting detective," he stated flatly. "When the police are out of their depth, which happens most of the time, they come to me. I solve the crimes they can’t handle."

John processed this. "So that crime scene - "

“One of the more boring cases," Sherlock allowed. "Easily solved. Lestrade gets sloppy sometimes, wants me to solve cases for him because it's faster and more efficient than doing it himself."

"Right," John said. And then again, "Right." He didn't know what to say. It was so outside the box of what he had been expecting, and yet it seemed to fit so well that he wondered how he hadn't thought about it. "I looked up your website."

"What did you think?"

"It was interesting," he said carefully. He would've been more inclined to dismiss the seemingly outrageous claims, but he kept remembering how easily Sherlock had analyzed him, how he’d known things that it should've been impossible for anyone to know. 

Sherlock smirked. "Interesting. What – " Whatever else he was going to say was cut off when his mobile pinged. He leapt to his feet, instantly dismissing John, and charged over to the mantle. A second later he let out an excited yelp and darted into his room. John sat back on the coffee table and watched in bemusement as Sherlock reappeared a minute later, fully dressed in tight slacks and a tighter purple shirt. 

“New case?”

“A continuance,” Sherlock replied, eyes gleaming with a hungry light. “Omegas have been disappearing on a regular basis. Not even their alphas can track them. Sometimes they turn up dead, most of the time they never turn up at all.” He snatched his coat up and swung it around his shoulders, turning the collar up with a sharp, practiced flick. “Their activity has diminished over the course of the last month and I’ve been waiting for it to surge again. Apparently Lestrade has stumbled across a crime scene that fits the parameters.” He sounded excited and John realized he was smiling in spite of himself. 

It was... good... to see Sherlock up and moving around, to see the excitement back in his face. Three long days of disappointments coupled with watching Sherlock sit on the sofa like a bump on a log, not knowing if he had the right to approach the man, had been affecting John more than he’d realized. He stood up as Sherlock bounded across the room and out the door without giving John so much as a second look. Suddenly, the flat felt oddly empty, and John sighed, good mood disappearing as fast as it had come. 

He’d spent the past three days looking for locum work to no success. Most of them were reluctant to hire ex-soldiers, but then when they heard he was a werewolf and an omega on top of that... well, they couldn’t say no fast enough. John was stuck at an impasse of knowing that the things he was good at, the things he’d spent his life learning, were of no use to him. Sure, he’d found a flat share with someone, but how long could he stay if he was unable to pay his part of the rent? The thought of staying in return for letting Sherlock mount him during his heat, if he even had another one, was unpleasant at best, bordering on prostitution at worst, and he refused to stoop that low.

“John.”

He jumped and turned, startled. How was it that Sherlock could move so bloody silently? “What?”

Sherlock was standing in the doorway. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Was I supposed to?” John asked.

Sherlock just looked at him.

John took that as a yes. He grabbed his cane and his jacket and followed Sherlock down the stairs, out into the cold afternoon air. Sherlock held a hand up and a cab pulled up almost immediately. As they climbed in the back, Sherlock rattled off an address at top speed before immersing himself in sending off a series of rapid-fire texts. John stared out the window, watching the scenery of London flashing by at top speed. His heart was pounding again, the tedious dullness that had set in during the past few days had been completely eradicated in the span of time it took Sherlock to realize he wasn’t following. 

“What exactly will I be doing at this crime scene?” he asked, not taking his gaze from the window. He could see in the reflection of the glass, the way that Sherlock finally lifted his head from his mobile and glanced at the back of John’s head. The back of his neck prickled from the force of that look but he refused to squirm.

“You’ll be assisting me,” said Sherlock simply. “An army doctor who has experience with bodies will be invaluable to my work.”

Invaluable. It was a good thing John was looking out the window because he couldn’t stop the foolish little smile that broke out across his face.


	13. Chapter 13

There was no more conversation after that. As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock leapt out, leaving John to pay the fare. He followed more slowly, only vaguely aware that the cab driver had got out behind him. They’d been brought to a trendier part of London that John rarely visited and he could see a cluster of press, cameras and all, just down the street, which meant that whoever had been killed or taken was either famous or important. It was all somewhat intimidating, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice or, more likely, care. The man swept towards the yellow tape like he was a king bestowing a moment of his time on his subjects.

John wasn’t so lucky. He’d only gone a handful of steps before a hand came down hard on his shoulder. His knees threatened to buckle at the resulting wave of pain that shot through him and, for the first time ever, he was actually grateful that he still had his cane, as it meant he remained on his feet instead of doing something embarrassing like falling.

“Oi! Where do you think you’re going? Authorized personnel only beyond the line!” a sharp young voice bit out behind him.

He turned with effort, looking at the man who’d stopped him. Well, boy, really, couldn’t have been much older than twenty or twenty-one. And a _human_ , that strange new place in John’s brain said smugly, which meant he was merely back-up, probably called in to help control the crowd while the wolves did their thing. John gritted his teeth in an effort to smile.

“I’m with Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“You? With him?” the boy’s eyebrows rose and he scoffed, puffing his chest out importantly. “Pull the other one. I’m going to have to escort you off the property, sir.”

“Don’t bother,” John muttered. Sherlock had gone ahead and it wasn’t worth the argument, not when his shoulder was thrumming in pain to the tune of his heartbeat. Every pulse hurt more. He’d get a cab back to the flat - or maybe walk to the tube, considering the astronomical amount of money he’d already handed out in cab fees that day - and wait for Sherlock there. 

“John.” A second hand landed on his shoulder, this time the one that wasn’t wounded. The pressure remained light before tightening fractionally. Sherlock’s eyes flashed with gold flecks as he glowered at the boy, who visibly gulped. “A human back-up,” Sherlock noted distastefully. “Fresh out and then pulled out of your girlfriend’s bed for a crime scene.” His head tilted slightly. “No, make that your boyfriend’s bed. Or at least, you think he’s your boyfriend, but you’re concerned that he’s dating another woman behind your back. You’re almost correct except for one thing. He’s actually dating _two_ women and one of them is a colleague of yours. There’s no need to take your poor relationship choices out on my assistant.”

There was something utterly possessive and dangerous about the way he said those last two words, an implied threat that didn’t need to be explicitly spoken to be understood. Certainly, the boy’s skin turned a chalky white and he babbled something in a pitch too high for the human ear to hear in response. Sherlock just stood there, mouth quirked in a strange little smile, as though waiting for the boy to say something just so that Sherlock could rip him to shreds.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, feeling bad for the boy. 

Sherlock huffed and finally dropped his gaze, spinning on his heel. He walked away and this time John hurried to keep up. “That was brilliant, you know,” he said.

“What was?”

“The way you knew those things about him. How did you know?”

“It was obvious,” Sherlock said, frowning slightly. “He was wearing a chain around his neck. Smudged, doesn’t care for it on a regular basis, not something he’d normally wear, so a gift from a lover he’s still seeing. But there’s pink nail polish on one of the links. A woman wore it regularly enough to catch her wet nail on it. Re-gift, then, as considering the way he was staring at you he’s unquestionably gay. But as for his boyfriend dating two women at once, well, that’s the boring part. When we arrived he was on his cell phone accusing someone of cheating on him. He mentioned a specific name and received confirmation considering the way he hung up, but failed to notice one of his sergeants staring at him. She kept twitching every time he waited for the person on the other side of the line to speak.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Obvious.”

“Maybe to you,” John muttered. It sounded like a series of completely innocent details and he had no idea how Sherlock had strung them together in order to reach a conclusion that was, apparently, completely right. He was about to ask when Sherlock stopped abruptly and John looked up to see that he was staring greedily at the door around which most of the officers were hovering. Sherlock plunged forward and they scattered out of his way, John on his heels as he sailed into the flat. There were a handful of people inside, some of whom John vaguely recalled. He supposed he could be forgiven for not remembering them with any detail, as the last time he’d met them he’d been sexually frustrated to the _n_ th degree and there had been an eager-to-please alpha plastered to his back.

“Freak’s here,” one of the women announced. 

“I can see that, Sally, thank you,” the DI said wearily. 

“Lestrade, has anything been moved?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the woman completely. She scowled in response and John decided he didn’t like her.

“No, Sherlock, we kept it exactly as it was,” Lestrade replied. He caught sight of John and nearly dropped his notebook. “Christ, what the hell are you thinking, bringing your omega around?”

“I’m not his mate!”

“He’s my assistant.”

John and Sherlock spoke at the same time. An awkward silence descended, broken only when Sherlock suddenly dove down the hall into one of the bedrooms. John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face as all stares switched to him. Was he going to have to explain that to every person that they met? He could see it becoming very tedious very quickly, especially since Lestrade was giving him a doubtful look that said their rapid denial hadn’t been believed.

“Really,” he said with an air of forced calm. “It’s not like that. I’m just his flatmate. And assistant, apparently.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, pulling a face. “And you are…”

“Watson. Doctor John Watson.”

Lestrade cast him a considering look. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said before brushing by John, heading towards the same bedroom that Sherlock had disappeared into.

“Are you really not the freak’s mate?” The beta – Sally – was standing next to him, had approached without his notice.

John couldn’t help tensing. “No, I’m not.”

“Good,” she said, and her expression was almost urgent. She leaned a little closer to him, dark eyes wide. “Listen to me, then. That man is bloody dangerous. He says he’s a sociopath but he’s so much worse. I saw the two of you on that day and no matter what you say I can tell it’s only a matter of time. Get out while you still can before it’s too late, before he ruins your life. You’ll only get one warning.” She gripped his arm, the ends of her nails piercing his flesh. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”


	14. Chapter 14

John’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t decide if he was more annoyed by her audacity, that she thought it was her place to warn him about Sherlock, or irritated that she apparently believed he wasn’t smart enough to realize that Sherlock might not be the most wholesome person. Gently but firmly, he pulled his arm out of her grasp, not wincing even when her nails dragged roughly across his skin and left four red marks behind. Sally blinked and then started, taking a half-step back when she saw what she’d done. Her mouth opened but John didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“Ta for that,” he said briskly. “But I’ll take my chances.” Because, alright, he didn’t know Sherlock all that well, not yet, considering that they’d only met less than two weeks ago and a fair portion of that time had been spent in bed fucking, but he wasn’t sure he was willing to believe Sally. For one thing, she had made it clear that she didn’t like Sherlock, and for another there was something about the wildness in her face when she talked about the detective that made him uneasy. Deliberately, he stepped away, adding, “I prefer to develop my own opinion about people, Sergeant Donovan. I’m sure you understand.”

He left Sally gaping and moved into the next room, which was swarming with forensic people. John leaned against the wall and waited for Sherlock to reappear, but he couldn’t help looking around and noticing that, as far as he could tell, there had been no struggle. Whoever took the omega, if she was indeed taken by someone, had either known her or had somehow got her out of the flat without otherwise arousing her suspicion. Even John could tell that much. The flat was large, boasting at least three bedrooms that he could see as well as a spacious kitchen, but everything was in its place and meticulously clean, at that. After spending a handful of days in Sherlock’s flat - their flat - this one felt like the sterile environment of a hospital.

The front door opened and a man walked in, escorted by a handful of officers. He was about John’s age with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a neatly pressed black suit and a crisp, pale blue shirt and darker blue tie. He looked around at all of the people in the flat with alarm, but before he could say anything Sherlock and Lestrade appeared from one of the bedrooms. Seeing him, Lestrade instantly stepped forward.

“Mr Drebber,” he said politely. “I’m Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. This is Sherlock Holmes. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright. Why don’t you start by telling us exactly what happened in as much detail as possible.”

“Err, alright,” Drebber said. “I got up yesterday morning and my wife made me breakfast. I went to work. I’m a lawyer,” he added, catching Sherlock’s questioning expression. “I work at Moffat & Gatiss; I’ve been there for quite a few years. We do criminal defence. Well, I had meetings all morning, which is common. My secretary Amanda told me that she’d had called at one point but I didn’t have time to return the call until after work.” He made as though he was going to lift his wrist to check his watch, but stopped halfway through. His arm dropped limply back to his side. “She didn’t answer. I arrived home at about half past six but she wasn’t here.”

“Was that unusual?” Lestrade asked.

Drebber shrugged. “Not especially. She had her little friends. She liked to go shopping with them on occasion. I assumed she would be home no later than eight and when she didn’t show up by nine I was concerned. By this morning I knew that something was wrong. That’s when I called the police.”

“What did you do last night?” Sherlock asked.

“Ordered in a takeaway for supper. Did some work that I’d brought home with me.” 

“And what did you have for lunch today?”

“I… had a meeting. We ordered in.” Drebber shifted uneasily under the force of Sherlock’s stare.

“Did your wife have any enemies that you know about?” Lestrade asked, easing his way into the conversation again. “Anyone who might have had reason to hurt her?”

“No. None that I know of and I would know.” Drebber’s chin lifted slightly. “But I’m a lawyer. I’ve made plenty of enemies over the years. It would be all too easy for one of them to have taken my omega in an effort to use her against me.” He hesitated a moment and then added, “You should start, though, by looking at Mason Cooper. He’s one of my rivals at the law firm. Recently he and I competed for a case and I was granted the right to defend Joseph Walker. He... strongly disagreed with the fact that it was given to me.”

As he spoke, John suddenly realized why Drebber had seemed a little familiar. Even in Afghanistan, cut off from the rest of the world, he remembered hearing about Walker’s case. It had been sensational and international, and so had the lawyer that had actually got him off when his guilt had seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Winning a case like that, considering the thing it would do for a career, would certainly be ample cause for someone to want a little bit of revenge. 

Sherlock made a soft noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat. “Do you have a picture of your wife?”

“Yes. I keep one with me all the time.” Drebber reached into his back pocket and pulled a picture out. He unfolded it and held it out. Curious, John stepped forward to get a better look. The photo was of a pretty young woman at least five or six years younger than Drebber. She had long, curly blonde hair and the clearest green eyes John had ever seen. She was wearing a frock that was all different shades of green, and it floated lightly around her body, emphasizing every curve. John stared at her face, at the thin line between her eyebrows, the small, tight smile on her lips, and unconsciously started to reach out in order to examine it more closely. Twin growls stopped his hand’s progress instantly and he glanced up to see both Sherlock and Drebber glaring at him. Immediately he put his hands up and stepped backwards.

“We’ll keep this,” Sherlock said, snatching the photo from Drebber’s fingers. “Now, come on, John, let’s go.” Without waiting for a response, Sherlock shouldered his way out of the flat. John hesitated for only a moment before he followed.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock, John discovered, could move bloody fast when he wanted to. He was actually panting by the time he caught up a good portion of the way down the street. “Sherlock!” he said, annoyed when the detective didn’t stop. His leg was burning under the strain. “Sherlock, hang on. What’s got into you?”

“There’s a case on, John,” Sherlock said in a cold voice. Men had frozen solid from voices warmer than that. “If you’re too slow to keep up - ”

“That’s not - would you _stop_ for two seconds? The evidence isn’t going to jump up and run away!” John reached out and seized Sherlock’s arm without thinking. The effect of moving his wounded arm, which was still throbbing in pain, made him wince. Sherlock noticed instantly.

“That boy grabbed your shoulder and his hand landed on the bite mark,” he muttered, glancing back in the direction of the crime scene. There was something about the look in his eyes that made John tighten his grip.

“Don’t,” he said firmly. “I’m fine. That kid didn’t know and it’ll stop hurting eventually.” That was true, though it could take anywhere from a day to a week for the throbbing and inflammation to die down completely. He could practically feel the area around the wound swelling. Gently, he cupped the area with his right hand and made a mental note to pick up some paracetamol on the way back to the flat. “Besides, you’ve got more important things to think about, right? The crime scene?”

Sherlock blinked and then scowled. “Yes.”

“Can I see the photo?”

“Why?”

“What d’you mean, why?” John tried to hide his exasperation, though he was pretty sure that Sherlock saw right through him. 

“You were surprised when you saw the picture.” Sherlock’s voice was low. “Your eyes dilated slightly and your breathing picked up, indicating a rise in heart rate. You do know she’s an omega, correct? The same as you. Even if she didn’t already belong to someone else - ”

“What, you thought… Sherlock, I wasn’t _attracted_ to her!” Suddenly the growling, at least on Drebber’s part, made sense. John shook his head and released Sherlock’s arm, not daring to think about what it meant that Sherlock had growled, too. That was a thought probably best left for later. “God, you pillock, I think I recognized her from somewhere. I was trying to get a closer look to see if I could remember from where.”

Sherlock watched him steadily for a long moment before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the photo. Silently, he handed it to John. John took it and brought it up close to his face, absorbing the details he hadn’t been able to make out before. Now he noticed that the girl was definitely young, probably closer to ten years his junior, at least in the picture (which made any level of attraction, had it existed, certifiably disturbing). She had a small mole on her right collarbone, near her throat, and she wasn’t wearing any make-up - unusual, considering that she was wearing a fancy dress. Her face, particularly her eyes, niggled at John’s memory but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why.

“I can’t think of it,” he said regretfully, pulling a face. He was fully expecting a comment from Sherlock about the disappointing ability of the regular human brain but surprisingly, the man merely nodded and took the photo back. “What do you think happened to her?”

“There’s not enough data to say,” Sherlock answered. “Her relationship with her alpha was not ideal.”

“What makes you say that?”

“This girl,” Sherlock held up the photo, “what’s her name?”

John opened his mouth to respond and then stopped. He ran the conversation over in his mind and realized that Drebber hadn’t actually called his wife by name.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said smugly. “Not once did he call her by her first name or by anything other than “my wife” or “my omega”. He referred to her friends as “little” and spoke as though she was one of his possessions that he had accidentally misplaced.” Sherlock began walking again, but this time John was able to keep up with no problem. “He didn’t make himself a meal when she wasn’t around but ordered takeaway. Doesn’t cook for himself. That’s her role. The house was in perfect order yet he wasn’t bothered by the fact that the forensics team wasn’t being careful. It’s not his place to care. Doesn’t clean, either. He’s one of those traditionalists who believed that an omega should be at home while the alpha works. 

“She, on the other hand, is suitably cowed by him. The house was spotless when we walked in. That would take hours of work every day. Even in the bedroom there wasn’t a thing out of place except for what Drebber was wearing last night. He’d thrown his clothes in a heap on the floor and dropped his watch on top of them. You’ll notice he wasn’t wearing it today. That’s because it was still on the floor, where she normally would have picked it up and laid it out for him to wear again.” Sherlock sounded excited. “This was no mere runaway, John. She was definitely taken.”

Just listening to Sherlock speak made John feel a little breathless. He’d observed much of the same things but he hadn’t drawn any of the same conclusions. It was… mesmerizing. “Amazing,” he muttered.

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly and a touch of pink rose in his cheeks. He cleared his throat before carrying on awkwardly, “At the same time, I’m not sure this case is connected to the previous disappearances. Lestrade seems to think it is but there are enough subtle differences to make me question that.”

“Do you think Drebber had something to do with it?”

“Too soon to tell,” Sherlock replied. He cast a quick, sideways glance at John before looking straight ahead. “I need to visit Mason Cooper.”

“Oh.” John wondered if that was Sherlock’s way of trying to get rid of him. He started to respond and then paused, noticing the way Sherlock was eyeing his shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if that was Sherlock’s way of _showing concern_. He tried to hide a pleased smile. “I could come. I mean, I haven’t got anything else on.”

By way of response, Sherlock threw a hand up and summoned a cab. One pulled up instantly and both of them got in. Sherlock rattled off the address (where he’d gotten it from, John wasn’t sure he wanted to know) and then pulled out his phone. John stared out the window and drummed his fingers on his thigh.

“You didn’t have to be,” he said.

Sherlock said nothing, but in the reflection of the glass, John saw that his head had tilted up just far enough for one silvery eye to be staring at him. He swallowed.

“I wasn’t - I didn’t - she’s not my type,” he concluded, feeling, if possible, even more awkward than before. “Really. That’s… that’s all I’m saying.”

Sherlock remained silent and turned his attention back to his phone, fingers dancing over the keys, but John was certain that it wasn’t his imagination, that Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed slightly. John smiled.


	16. Chapter 16

The appointment with Mason Cooper didn’t last very long, considering that Sherlock didn’t say a word to him. Instead, Sherlock flitted about the man’s office, poking his nose into everything, while John sat in the chair and tried to ask the sort of questions he thought Sherlock would want to hear the answers to. That was more difficult than he’d originally anticipated, considering that he wasn’t wholly certain that Sherlock was even listening to the conversation. For that matter, neither was Cooper, who was so utterly caught up in watching Sherlock like a hawk that John had to repeat every question twice before it was answered, though Cooper didn’t seem to be brave enough to demand that Sherlock stop being so nosy.

John wasn’t really sure who was more relieved when Sherlock spun on his heel and marched out the door without so much as a by your leave. He looked at Cooper. “We’ll be in contact if we have any further questions,” he said awkwardly, levering himself out of the chair and hurrying after his errant flatmate. 

In a cab on their way back to Baker Street, he looked over at Sherlock and said, “You don’t think he did it.”

“Cooper? No, the man’s an idiot,” Sherlock said dismissively. “He would’ve bungled that job and he knows it. Moffat and Gatiss were right not to give it to him. The real reason he hates Drebber is much pettier than that. Drebber got him drunk one night and when he went home to his girlfriend, he confessed about the affair he was having in a fit of guilt. That’s where he was when Lucy went missing, by the way. With his secretary. I believe they were doing it in Drebber’s office.” His mouth curled into a smirk.

Lucy must have been the name of Drebber’s omega, John realized. The name suited her, sounded familiar. God he wished he could remember where he knew her from. “What now, then?”

“I need to think.”

Thinking appeared to involve leaving John to pay the fare and then throwing himself down on the sofa and staring determinedly at the ceiling after having slapped two nicotine patches onto his arm. John shook his head as he entered the flat and stripped his coat off. Not bothering to ask this time, he made them both a cup of tea and set Sherlock’s down on the table. Then he sank down into what was rapidly becoming his chair and sighed as he sipped at the steaming liquid. Sherlock seemed to be surging from the adrenaline of the case, but he was exhausted. It hadn’t been so very long ago that he’d been caught up in bed, still weak from infection, and he hadn’t had such a busy day in months. He shifted, realizing that he’d forgotten to pick any paracetamol, blast it.

“Do you think Lucy is still alive?” he asked suddenly, quietly.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

John sighed and picked up the remote to turn the telly on. At some point he must have drifted off to the sound of the news.

He woke up to find Sherlock crouched down in front of him, staring intently.

“What? Sherlock?” John muttered, wondering what time it was. It felt late. “What’s wrong?”

“John, would you ever hurt me?” Sherlock asked.

The question made John blink and for a moment he just stared in confusion. Hurt Sherlock? Why the hell would he ever want to do that? He squinted, realizing that the room was lit only by the flickering of the light from the telly, and croaked, “Hurt you? Like how?”

“If I hit you, would you hit me back?”

“Yes, of course,” John said, the words heavy and slow. “Please don’t test it.”

Sherlock smirked at that and tapped his fingers together. He appeared to be thinking deeply. “Interesting,” he said at last, and it sounded like he had come to some sort of conclusion. “Go back to sleep, John.”

“Why did you want to know?”

“For the case,” Sherlock said simply. He stood up and moved away and John closed his eyes, torn between going back to sleep and getting up and moving to his bed. It was decided for him when something warm and heavy settled around his body. The cloth was soft and smelled deliciously of Sherlock, soothing and safe, and he sighed sleepily, deciding immediately that remaining right where he was would be for the best.

\---

Sherlock stepped back from the chair and watched John nuzzle his nose against the collar of his coat. In the span of a minute John had slipped back into sleep, breathing becoming deep and slow, head tilting to the side, hands wound into the fabric of the coat like someone might try to take it away. A pang of _something_ rose up inside of him, though he refused to acknowledge what it might be or what it meant. Instead, he spun on his heel and walked back to the couch, mind racing.

John wasn’t a normal omega. Created omegas were different from those who had been born that way; they didn’t feel the same submissive tendencies. Lucy Drebber wouldn’t have fought back at any point in her life, regardless of who was trying to take her, but especially if it had been her alpha. He paced back and forth, thinking the matter over. According to their neighbours she had been last seen around 2:00pm getting into a cab, though of course no one could give any more detail than that. Reportedly she hadn’t seemed out of sorts or afraid.

Mason Cooper was innocent, of that he was certain, just like he was positive that Lucy Drebber’s disappearance was not related to the other omegas that had vanished. There was something different about this case, and though the differences were slight and could have been easily overlooked Sherlock had caught them. Lucy hadn’t been taken from her home, for one thing, and she’d gone missing in the middle of the day, not late at night or in the early morning. Seemingly inconsequential, yet he knew it meant something.

The truly pressing question was what? Was Drebber behind this? It would be relatively simple for someone to make it look like one of the omega disappearances and as a lawyer Drebber might have access to details regular civilians wouldn’t. Had the man overcome an alpha’s ingrained desire to protect their omega and disposed of her in some way? Sherlock needed more evidence; he knew he was missing something that would cause the pieces of this case to snap together in that rush, that clarity of understanding he loved.

He sat back down on the couch and picked up another patch, pressing it against the tender skin of his underarm, relishing the surge that shot through him almost immediately. He pressed his fingertips together and stared out into the barely lit room, conscious of John’s soft, steady breathing over in the corner. It wasn’t all that late. He could’ve gone to question some of Lucy’s friends to find out more about her relationship with Drebber. Instead, with one last glance at John, he pulled his laptop over and balanced it on his knees to do some research that didn’t require leaving the flat.


	17. Chapter 17

When John woke up, it was to a painful crick in his neck and the impression that he was alone. The telly was off and the flat was completely silent. He was still curled up in his chair where he’d settled down the night before; the only thing that had changed was that at some point Sherlock’s coat had been draped across his body. The heavy cloth was tucked up around his mouth and nose, meaning that every breath he inhaled came with a flood of Sherlock’s scent, faded only slightly. It was rapidly becoming familiar to him, this heady, rich scent, and he thought somewhat hazily that he would’ve been able to pick it out from a crowd without any problems.

Someone cleared their throat.

John sat up instantly, adrenaline pouring through him, and only just kept himself from shivering when the coat slipped down around his thighs. There was a man in the flat, a man he’d never seen before. He was tall - taller than John, though everyone was - and wearing a suit that had likely cost more than John’s entire wardrobe combined. There was a pleasant smile on his face, but otherwise his expression was completely blank, giving no hint as to what he might be thinking. An umbrella rested against his left thigh.

“Who are you?” John asked over the pounding of his heart, wishing that he’d thought to fall asleep with his gun nearby. Except with Sherlock in the room, in the safety of their little flat, the thought hadn’t occurred to him. 

“I am an interested party, Doctor Watson,” said the man. “I understand that you went through a heat with Sherlock Holmes.” He tilted his head. “Curious.”

Sherlock. The man knew Sherlock. Of course he did. Was he friend or… well, Sherlock didn’t have many friends, so that left him safely in the category of foe. Marvellous. “Who are you?” John repeated.

“I believe I already answered that question.”

“An interested party is not an answer,” said John, clenching his hands underneath the cover of the coat. By the way the man’s eyes fell to the coat, he knew anyway. “What are you doing here? Where’s Sherlock?”

“Oh, I do expect he’s around somewhere. Sherlock is rather possessive. I never imagined he would find an omega that would pique his curiosity so thoroughly. What is it about you, Doctor Watson, that has turned the world of Sherlock Holmes on its head?” The man drummed his fingers against the handle of the umbrella, watching John closely with keen, blue-gray eyes that seemed to see everything. An awful suspicion bloomed in the back of John’s mind, but before he could say anything, there was a clatter from downstairs and then footsteps on the stairs.

“Sherlock! What have I told you about stealing evidence - Mycroft?” Detective Inspector Lestrade came to an abrupt stop, eyes wide as he took in the scene. He started to say something and the thought better of it, shaking his head and sighing. “Mycroft, what are you doing here?”

“I came to meet Doctor Watson, of course.”

“Wait, you know him?” John asked at the same time.

“Yes, I know him. John, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother,” Lestrade told him. He looked at Mycroft. “Sherlock’s going to be furious that you’re here, you know. And _I’m_ going to be the one who has to deal with him after he’s had a strop.”

Mycroft just smiled. “My apologies. I’m sure I can think of some way to make it up to you.”

John looked between them, perturbed by the suddenly deepened quality of Mycroft’s voice and the way Lestrade shifted in response. “Okay, wait, hang on. If you’re Sherlock’s brother… Are you trying to _check up on me_? Make sure I’m safe for him?” he asked a touch incredulously. 

“I already know that you’re safe. You wouldn’t have got near my brother otherwise,” Mycroft replied, seemingly not bothered that Lestrade had revealed his identity. “I’ve seen your records, John - may I call you John? Excellent. Still, even I hadn’t expected Sherlock to take you so well. You’ve only just met and you’ve already gone through a heat and moved in together. This is going far better than I could have expected. I do so love it when a plan works out so well.”

Three things happened simultaneously. Mycroft stood up and stepped closer to John, bringing his umbrella with him. John’s head snapped back as Mycroft’s scent struck him and he realized that the man was an alpha, and a strong one at that. Lestrade crossed the room in a handful of long strides and inserted himself neatly between Mycroft and John, preventing Mycroft from moving any further.

“Don’t, My,” he warned. “You’re trying to wind Sherlock up. You know how he gets when you’re in the flat and now you’re trying to get near his - well, you’re pushing it.”

Mycroft looked at him for a long moment and then conceded. “Very well. I suppose I have gotten what I came for. John, I will see you again shortly. Do try to keep Sherlock out of trouble if you can. Good day.” He gave a short nod and then strode out of the flat. Lestrade sighed.

“Tell Sherlock I need to speak to him when he returns,” he told John. “Well, you can tell him when he’s done… yeah. Alright?”

John just nodded. Lestrade nodded back before he left the flat as well. John stayed where he was, staring at the spot where Mycroft had just been, and wondered what had just happened.

\---

“My!” Greg opened the front door of 221 and wasn’t surprised to see that Mycroft was waiting for him just outside. He shut the door behind him and shot the man an exasperated look. “Was that truly necessary? You know how Sherlock reacts when you invade his territory.”

“I also know how Sherlock will be around John Watson until the two of them bond,” Mycroft replied. “My brother will be fine, Gregory. If anything, perhaps this will encourage him to make a move. Jealousy is a wonderful motivator, I’ve found.”

Greg shook his head lightly. Sometimes the world of the wolves seemed to be exactly like the human one, to the point where he failed to see the difference. “Please stop taunting Sherlock, Mycroft. I need his help on this case.”

“Are you under a lot of pressure?” Mycroft looked at him closely. Greg fought the urge to step back. Even after a year, Mycroft’s scrutiny could still be difficult to take. It was like being laid out underneath a microscope and dissected, except he wasn’t sure that even a microscope could know that much about him from just long glance.

“I can handle it if you stop making trouble,” he said and smiled. “Conserve your energy towards making it up to me.”

There was a feral glint in Mycroft’s eyes. “I will always have enough energy for that, my dear,” he promised. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Greg said softly, feeling a pleasant chill. He’d make the time.


	18. Chapter 18

John remained where he was for a few minutes after Lestrade left, trying in vain to wrap his mind around what had just happened. He was pretty sure that there was a conversation going on that he wasn’t a part of, even though it had been about him. Torn between frustration and amusement, he shook his head slowly, thinking that he never wanted to meet the Holmes parents if that was how Sherlock and, apparently, his brother had turned out. It was a bloody miracle that both of them had made it to adulthood.

He levered himself off of the chair with a sigh and automatically caught Sherlock’s coat before it could fall to the floor. It still smelled like the man, he noticed, a heady, rich fragrance that seemed to burrow deep into John’s nose. The whole flat smelled like Sherlock, of course, but the concentrated form of his coat was intoxicating. He pressed his face into the sleeve and took a deep breath. A feeling of safety and something he couldn’t identify flooded through him, soothing the racing beat of his heart and allowing the stress that had formed over Mycroft’s impromptu visit to float away. God, he could’ve stayed like that for hours.

But then a door banged somewhere downstairs and he heard footsteps on the stairs, and, suddenly mortified, John yanked his face up just as Sherlock appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed, curls a mess, a wild look in his eyes. “Where is he?” he growled.

“Who? Your brother?” John said, hoping against hope that Sherlock hadn’t noticed what he had just been doing. “He left already. Lestrade made him leave.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to be especially pleased by this information. He looked around the room like he expected there to be something visibly out of place. John watched, perplexed, as Sherlock began stalking around, occasionally rifling through a stack of papers or lifting various objects to scrutinize them with narrowed eyes. Abruptly, Sherlock whirled, though the effect was slightly less prominent without his coat, and moved over to stand in front of John. Very deliberately, he leaned forward and breathed in deeply.

“Ah, Sherlock?” John asked, swallowing hard. Sherlock was so close that he could see every dark eyelash that outlined his unusual eyes. He started to take a step backwards and then froze when Sherlock’s hand shot out, catching his good shoulder and holding him still.

“You smell like me,” Sherlock murmured, gold flecks flashing in his eyes. “Not like Mycroft. My scent is all over you. Just what were you doing with my coat before I came into the flat, John?”

God, this was the last thing he needed. “I wasn’t doing anything. Of course I smell like you. I woke up to find your coat on me this morning.” He paused, realizing he hadn’t stopped to wonder how the coat had gotten there in the first place, before pushing on, “And your bloody brother was on the sofa watching me. How did he get in? Does he have a key?”

“Mycroft has his ways,” Sherlock said absently, watching John’s face very closely. “I meant what I said.”

“What you said… when?”

“I don’t like other alphas invading my territory.” His hand tightened to the point of pain. “Or touching what belongs to me.”

There was an implication in those two sentences that John wasn’t sure he was ready to face. His mouth went dry at the intensity in Sherlock’s eyes and he spoke without thinking. “He didn’t touch me,” he said. “Anything! I mean he didn’t touch anything. In the flat. He just sat there on the sofa.”

“I know exactly what he did,” Sherlock said, and then he pulled, smoothly and seamlessly, lowering his head so that his mouth caught John’s as John stumbled forward. 

It was completely different from the rough, wild snogging they had done while John was in heat. This, this was a _kiss_ , genuine and soft at first, even when Sherlock nudged his mouth open and slipped his tongue inside, and once John got over his shock at the unexpected action he straightened up and kissed back. Sherlock tasted bloody amazing, like a physical manifestation of his scent, and he couldn’t get enough. John curled his hands into Sherlock’s shirt and stepped closer, bringing their bodies together, and that made it easier to slide his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, an action Sherlock seemed to appreciate judging by the way his hand cupped John’s arse greedily.

One of the first things he’d been told after arriving at the Centre, one of the things that he hadn’t been able to help listening to, was that most natural alphas and omegas didn’t tend to have sex outside of the heat. It had been a word of a caution for those who had become wolves after the fact, who were used to having sex on a more regular basis and might not experience heats. John was relieved to note that this didn’t seem to apply to Sherlock, as there was definite evidence pressing against his thigh that Sherlock was interested. And the thought that that _interest_ might soon lead to something else had John wrenching his mouth away.

“Christ,” he gasped. “You… you kissed me.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock said, looking amused. He hadn’t eased up his grip on John one bit, still had the man trapped by one possessive hand on the small of John’s back and the other hand on John’s arse. 

“But… you… I didn’t think…” John trailed off, wondering if the kiss had seriously damaged his ability to string words together. Or maybe that was just because the hand cupping his bum was now wandering between his cheeks, pressing material against the hidden place between in a pointed caress that couldn’t be misconstrued. His knees went weak at the gentle pressure and he swore, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s shirt at the last moment.

“Then stop thinking. You’re not very good at it.”

John stared up at him. “Right,” he said, and then because there was nothing else for it, he reached up and pulled Sherlock back down into a kiss.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock groaned against his mouth and then suddenly there were hands on John's hips, pulling him even more snugly against Sherlock's body and a tongue was prying his mouth open. John turned himself over to the kiss willingly, unconsciously grinding his hips against Sherlock's thigh. He was half-hard already and his cock was swelling quickly, the blood rushing south so fast that it was leaving him feeling a little lightheaded. With effort, he tore his mouth away and breathed in raggedly. All he could taste, all he could smell, all he could feel was _Sherlock_ and it was making his head spin. 

The hands on his hips pressed him backwards, walking him towards the sofa. John's knees hit the cushions and he tipped over backwards. Instantly Sherlock was straddling him, eyes blazing as he went to work on John's neck, nipping and sucking and biting at the tender flesh while John writhed beneath him. Gasping shallowly, John worked his hands down underneath the hem of Sherlock's shirt until he could touch the warm skin underneath. Sherlock made an approving sound and pulled back just long enough to shuck his jacket and unbutton his shirt. John watched those long fingers working with the buttons and swallowed hard, his heart racing.

"Fuck, Sherlock," he said hoarsely as more skin was revealed to him. There hadn't been much opportunity to admire Sherlock before because of the frenzy of his heat, but the man was truly stunning: a work of sharp, angular lines and a hint of curve in just the right places, all covered by what seemed to be miles of pale, porcelain skin. John's mouth watered and he leaned forward, lapping at the delicate skin of Sherlock's navel. He was pleased to hear the strangled moan that emerged from Sherlock's mouth as a result.

"John," Sherlock said breathlessly. His eyes were wide and John understood.

"Never done this before, have you?" he asked, tweaking Sherlock's nipples just because he could. Sherlock squirmed and ground down without conscious thought. Both of them moaned as their cocks came into contact; the flash of pure pleasure was almost enough to make John forget what he had been doing. "You wolves are so... oh god, do that again Sherlock!... you're so caught up in your own little world that you totally forget... fuck... you forget..." 

He trailed off and stared, hardly breathing, as Sherlock somehow managed to shuck his trousers and pants without ever moving off of John. His cock was fully hard, jutting proudly away from a nest of tidy black curls. John reached out and slipped his hand around the base, marvelling at the fact that this had been inside him several times already and would be again shortly. Sherlock was much thicker and longer than he'd realized and, curiously, he could feel the small hard lump at the base where the knot would form when John was in heat. This was the first time he'd ever seen an alpha werewolf naked when he wasn't otherwise consumed and it was fascinating.

"John," Sherlock said again, and this time he sounded amused. "You can give me a medical examination later. Right now I'd like to fuck you."

"Jesus," John muttered. "Yes, Sherlock, yes. Get off so I can take my trousers off."

Sherlock slid to the side obligingly and John stood up, making quick work of his own clothing. In seconds he was as naked as Sherlock and he turned, looking down at the man. Sherlock was sprawled against the end of the couch, thighs parted obscenely, one leg resting lazily on the floor. He looked to be the very picture of a debauched man. John swallowed hard, realizing that there was exactly enough room for him to straddle Sherlock and sink down onto the man's cock. It probably should have alarmed him, how very much he wanted that.

"Lube," he said hoarsely. "We need lube, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not in heat, that's why. I'll take that to mean you haven't got any, damn." John thought for a moment. Buying lube hadn't been high on his list of priorities when he returned to London; he'd hardly been expecting to fall into bed with a gorgeously insane and incredibly possessive alpha. They would have to make do. "Stay there, I'll be right back."

He turned and hurried into the bathroom, making a quick and thorough search only to come up with nothing. Growing desperate, he went into the bedroom that he still wasn't sure if he and Sherlock were sharing and fetched the small container of Vaseline out of his backpack. It wasn't the best substance but it would do, and if he had to wait any longer he was going to explode. He ran back to the living room and saw that Sherlock had started without him by gently pulling at his cock with long, languid strokes that had John freezing to the spot just so that he could watch.

"This is so inconvenient," Sherlock complained when he looked up and saw John. "I like you better when you're in heat and can produce your own lube."

"Inconvenient?" John raised an eyebrow with a knowing smile. Sherlock really had no idea, did he? Their sex while he'd been in heat had been fabulous, completely overwhelming and earth-shattering as it went, but there was something to be said for sex that wasn’t happening while their bodies were in a frenzy. He had a sudden vision of showing Sherlock exactly how sex without a heat could differ in great detail and felt his knees grow weak with desire. "I'll show you exactly how inconvenient this is, then."

Instead of returning to the couch, he sat down on what was rapidly becoming his chair and spread his legs, hooking his good one over the arm of the chair. He wouldn't be able to stay this way for long but it would do for the time being. Sherlock sat up, looking more interested, as John popped the top of the container off and greased up two of his fingers. He’d only ever done this the one time, but curiously, he felt no shame or embarrassment whatsoever. He forced himself to relax as he lowered his hand and pressed one finger into his hole. Due to the awkward angle he wouldn’t be able to find his prostate, but the lack of stimulation was more than made up for by the fact that Sherlock's eyes had gotten very round and very wide and were glued to John's hole as he steadily moved a finger in and out.

“You see?” he asked, his eyes fluttering shut as he pulled his finger out and traced it around slowly, discovering for the first time just how responsive the skin around his entrance was. He whimpered, squirming at the sensation of his finger teasing the sensitive rim, and pushed the tip of it in, crooking it slightly before he dragged it back out. Oh yes, that was...

Fingers that didn’t belong to him were touching him suddenly. John sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes flew open to see Sherlock on his knees and the little tube of Vaseline half empty. Sherlock was staring at his entrance, expression entranced. Being the sole focus of all that attention was completely overwhelming and John clenched his free hand into a fist as Sherlock pushed one of his fingers inside of John, finding John’s prostate with ease. The wicked little smirk on his face as John gasped and his hips twisted left John with the feeling he might’ve created a monster.


	20. Chapter 20

John had noticed, but he had never really taken the time to acknowledge or admire, the fact that Sherlock had incredibly long fingers that were perfectly suited to playing the violin. Or, at the case was turning out to be, to tormenting flatmates. He threw his head back, choking on a moan, as Sherlock twisted the sole finger that was embedded deeply inside of him and gently ran it over the top of John's prostate. It hadn't taken him long to figure out that direct stimulation was too much, but a sort of light sweeping motion across the top of the little gland was enough to make John squirm, his hips moving in a constant slow twitch and grind as he struggled to get _more_.

"None of that," Sherlock murmured, catching John's hand when John started to reach for his cock. He intertwined their fingers and pointedly hitched John's leg higher. Almost automatically, John reached down with his free hand and hooked his arm under his knee, holding it well out of the way. That effectively left him trapped and Sherlock free to investigate as he pleased.

He slowly eased his finger out and placed a second one alongside it, then pushed them into John slowly. His eyes darted from John's face to his entrance, making sure that two at once wasn't too much for John to handle. Judging by the way he was writhing, though, it wasn't. Sherlock finally dropped his gaze and stared openly at the small pink hole that was swallowing his fingers. He couldn't get over how _eager_ John's body was for his every touch. He slipped his fingers in as far as they could go and breathed out slowly, watching as John squirmed anew at the sensation of the hot breath playing over his sensitive skin. It was utterly fascinating to see how the smallest of movements could have such an effect on John.

"Do you think you could come from this alone?" he inquired.

"I... I don't know," John gasped out through gritted teeth. As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he knew he'd made a mistake. Saying the words "I don't know" to Sherlock Holmes was tantamount to giving an addict information on where to find a stash of the drug of their choice. John had learned within a couple of days that Sherlock had a sense of curiosity unparalleled to anyone else; when something fascinated him he had to know everything about it, and what he didn't know he usually took steps to find out immediately. The man's eyes were gleaming in a way that left John feeling very uncomfortable. "Sherlock, no. You're not allowed to experiment on me."

"Not even if I know you'll like it?" Sherlock asked, his expression all innocence. It wouldn’t have worked, but he crooked his fingers at the same time and John's back arched as a high-pitched yelp escaped his lips. He squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly, desperate for something to cling to, and shook his head.

"Oh god, just do something," he groaned. His position on the chair made it difficult for him to push down against the immensely pleasurable sensation of Sherlock's fingers stroking him inside. No matter how much he wanted to fuck himself ruthlessly on those clever fingers, the angle was simply too awkward. He was trapped, spread out for Sherlock's perusal, and he couldn't do a thing about it. He dropped his head against the back of the chair and struggled to draw in proper breaths.

Sherlock made a thoughtful sound and eased a third finger inside once he'd judged that the muscle had been sufficiently loosened. John was hot and smooth inside, his walls like soft, burning velvet. It was completely different from when the man was in heat. There wasn't nearly as much lubrication, for one thing, and he ached to be inside so that he could really catalogue the differences. His cock was throbbing with desire and if John hadn't been clutching so tightly onto his other hand he would've palmed himself already. Instead he tried to ignore it and focused on John, beginning a slow in and out, in and out, in and out with his three fingers pressed tightly together. John's hips began to unconsciously move with the rhythm, pushing forward as best he could to meet every thrust inside. A nearly inaudible keening that Sherlock didn't think John was even aware he was making was filling the room.

"You like this, don't you?" Sherlock murmured, keeping his pace slow and deliberate. Sex had never really interested him. Sex with John, on the other hand, was proving to be fascinating. He could've easily knelt there and done this all day, learning every moan, whimper and squeal that John could make. He slowly pulled his fingers free, ignoring John's whine of disappointment, and lazily trailed his slick hand up, investigating the delicate skin of John's perineum. John fidgeted at the sensation and Sherlock smirked to himself. Without warning he plunged three fingers back inside of John. At the same time, he used his thumb to palpitate the sensitive flesh, massaging his prostate from the inside as well as from the outside.

That was all it took.

John's eyes grew wide and his lips parted in a silent scream. His head tilted forward, a blush staining his cheeks, and his grip tightened on Sherlock's fingers to the point of pain as his cock shot ribbons of semen all over Sherlock's chest. Sherlock continued to fuck him gently, soothing him through the aftershocks, as he surveyed the seed thoughtfully. He would have liked to have tasted it but his hands were otherwise occupied, so he glanced back up at John, who had slumped into the chair and was shivering. Mindful of John’s increased sensitivity, Sherlock pulled his fingers out and wiped them on John’s shirt, knowing that it would have to be tossed out anyway. He used the shirt to clean the semen off of his chest before he spoke.

"John?" he said.

"Fucking hell," John rasped, blinking slowly. "You're going to be the death of me if you keep doing things like that."

A smirk crossed Sherlock's face. He'd seen the look John had given him when he'd made his comment about inconvenience. It hadn't been hard to deduce that John thought he was some inexperienced virgin. He stood up and, without a trace of shame, wrapped his fingers around his cock. He couldn't help groaning in relief at the feeling. He was ridiculously close just from bringing John to orgasm and he knew that it wouldn't take much. John squeezed his hand tightly and when Sherlock glanced down he saw that John was watching him, watching him stroke himself off, and the utterly hungry look in John's eyes was enough. His cock swelled in his hand and he gritted his teeth, trying to keep quiet as he came all over John. His legs felt shaky afterwards and he sat down hard on the edge of the chair, sprawling backwards until he was lying, more or less, half on top of John.

"That was seriously hot," said John after a long moment. He sounded stunned.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, turning his head and sniffing. Now the flat smelled like him and John and their combined excitement, a heady, pervasive scent that blocked out any trace of Mycroft and Lestrade. Pleased, he lifted his hand and started lazily rubbing John's stomach, massaging his semen into John's skin. Even if John showered he would still smell like Sherlock for days to come and there was something about that knowledge that made Sherlock want to purr.

"Are you... are you _marking your territory_?"

"Yes."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, but it didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice that there was a small smile on his face as he said, "Alright. Carry on if you must."

But Sherlock didn’t. He was staring at John’s stomach, a look on his face that John was slowly coming to recognize. It was Sherlock’s ‘I’ve just deduced something’ expression. “Of course,” he breathed, sitting up suddenly. He didn’t take his hand off of John’s stomach but he did reach out and grab his phone. He began to text with one hand.

“What is it?” John asked, feeling a bit silly. 

“Perfume.”

That meant less than nothing to John. “Excuse me?”

“Perfume,” Sherlock repeated, looking up from his phone. There was a mad light in his eyes that John suspected he shouldn’t have found as attractive as he did. “John, you like my scent, don’t you?”

“What?” John’s mouth dropped open at the sudden question. “That’s not… What…” And then, when he caught sight of Sherlock rolling his eyes, he frowned defensively. “Alright, yeah, what of it?”

“If it was on you, if you smelled like me, would you ever cover it up?”

“I… no, probably not.” That little bit of honesty was enough to make him squirm. 

“Exactly. An omega imprints on their alpha during the mating process. The scent of the alpha becomes deeply engrained in them. It’s part of what prevents them from cheating or straying.” Sherlock started rubbing again, but absently, as though he was thinking too hard to realize what he was doing. “When I was in the bedroom I noticed that Lucy had numerous perfume bottles all over her dresser. Why would she be trying so hard to cover up her alpha’s scent?”

“But we’re not mated. You can hardly use me as a point of reference,” John protested.

Sherlock ignored him. “We need to speak to Drebber again,” he declared.


	21. Chapter 21

In the cab on the way back to Drebber’s, John couldn’t help glancing periodically at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The seemingly oblivious detective was staring intently at his phone, though he wasn’t texting, just seemed to be waiting for something. His countenance made it clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. For his part, John didn’t know what to say - or do, for that matter. He had never thought that he would be one of those people who initiated the ‘where is this relationship going’ talk, but he was beginning to think that he was going to have to be when it came to Sherlock. 

Sometimes he thought that Sherlock would be content with just having a good fuck every three months. Not knowing where they stood was exasperating, particularly since there was evidence that Sherlock might want more. The possessiveness, for one thing, and some of the things he said, like the comparisons he’d been drawing between their whatever it was they had and the relationship between Lucy and Drebber... Not to mention the fact that they’d just had sex outside of a heat, which had been pretty bloody amazing even if John said it himself, combined Sherlock’s insistence that he not take the time to shower before he left the flat… It was all making him wonder.

But curious though he might be, he knew now wasn’t the time to bring it up, not when Sherlock was deep into “case mode”. The cab came to a stop outside of a familiar building and Sherlock leapt out, disappearing in a whirl of coat. Sighing, John fished his wallet out and thrust a small stack of pounds at the cabbie before he hopped out and followed as quickly as he could. Sherlock went straight into the building and had already pushed his way inside the flat by the time John caught up to him. 

“What do you two want?” Drebber asked. He was wearing a pair of jeans, a far cry from the suit they had seen him in before, and looked annoyed.

“Sherlock, you can’t just barge in here,” Lestrade said at the same time. To John’s surprise, the inspector was standing right behind Sherlock, arms folded, and in spite of his words he didn’t seem very inclined to stop the detective.

Sherlock ignored them both. “You’re not Lucy’s true alpha, are you?”

Drebber actually sputtered, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. “Wh-what… h-how…?”

Sherlock looked smug. “That’s what I suspected.” He turned towards John, clearly anticipating confusion, and said, “It’s rare, but occasionally other alphas can overcome the primary imprint that occurs during a mating. They replace the primary scent with their own and it’s like the first imprint never happened. In this case, though Drebber tried to force the secondary imprint, he was largely unsuccessful and only kept Lucy under control by leading her to believe that her first alpha was dead. A lie, judging by the fact that her true alpha took her away when she found out the truth. It’s the only thing that could have given her, a traditional omega in every way, the courage to leave.”

“Is that true?” John asked, staring at Drebber. He knew that it was at a glance; Drebber looked so mortified that it was evident Sherlock had stumbled across the truth. The idea of it made John feel ill. Even now, Sherlock’s scent surrounded him like a comforting blanket, a sense of home and safety that he was always aware of. The thought of someone trying to replace it… well, John would fight that with everything he had.

“Of course it’s true,” Sherlock said, not giving Drebber the opportunity to speak. He looked pleased with himself. “I suspected that your relationship was less than ideal, but I didn’t fully understand why until I considered the ramifications of the perfume bottles. You didn’t buy those for her. Lucy bought them, or had them gifted to her, so that she could cover up the scent of the imprint you tried to force on her. Illegal, by the way.”

Lestrade’s eyes had narrowed. “Mr Drebber, I need you to come down to the station with me.”

“No!” Drebber threw his hands up. “It’s not… you can’t… Alright, I’ll explain!” he yelped in panic when Lestrade started to reach for him. “I met Lucy through one of those camps. She and her father had been taken in after they were left with nothing. Bandits, never caught. Lucy was promised to me but she met someone else and they ended up mating.” His face was dark with anger. “She was mine first. The camp ran him off and delivered her to me, as promised. She agreed to a secondary mating. I didn’t force her.”

John had no idea what a camp was, but it sounded horrific. He looked to Sherlock, who was pacing back and forth, assimilating the information rapidly. Sherlock said, “You told her that her first alpha was dead, but he wasn’t.”

“No,” Drebber said tensely, “he wasn’t. I always knew he might come after us so we moved across the country. I refused to let her go see her father or have contact with anyone who might be able to direct him towards us if he came looking. When she disappeared I thought it might be him, but I had hoped…” He trailed off.

“What was the name of the first alpha?” Lestrade demanded, his normally courteous tone disappearing in the wake of annoyance. A lot of time had been wasted.

Drebber swallowed hard. “Jefferson Hope.”

And right then, John remembered where he knew Lucy Drebber from. He must have jerked or otherwise made some sort of sound because Sherlock swung around to stare at him. 

Lestrade said, “Alright. You’re coming with me until we can verify your story. Sherlock - ”

“Later,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of the hand. He swept over to John and placed a warm hand on the small of John’s back, guiding him out of the flat. John went willingly, and though he would never admit it, it was absurdly _good_ to have that physical confirmation of Sherlock’s presence. They ended up back outside, and when they were a safe distance from any eavesdroppers Sherlock stopped.

“John.”

He twisted and looked at Sherlock. “I remembered where I knew Lucy from,” he blurted, not waiting for Sherlock to ask. “When I was at the Centre, one of the trainers there, he had the same picture of Lucy on his desk that Drebber had. There was this man who used to come in and visit him all the time. His name was Hope.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock muttered thoughtfully. “With her father’s support, Hope would have removed Lucy from the situation easily. How disappointing.”

John blinked. “Sorry - _disappointing_?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The case is solved as far as I’m concerned. Drebber was the one in the wrong. He won’t be charged since Lestrade can’t prove the secondary imprint was forced, but Lucy is with her father and Hope. I could track them down but there’s no point. Boring. I had hoped for a more interesting case than this.”

John just stared, too torn to respond. On the one hand, it was good that Sherlock wasn’t going to try to track Lucy down. But on the other hand… _boring_? His internal conflict must have been obvious because Sherlock rolled his eyes, fisted a hand in John’s collar, and yanked him close into a blazing kiss that made John’s toes curl. The hand on the small of his back kept him pinned against Sherlock and John had to admit, he was so very content to be there.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said against his mouth. “I haven’t finished scenting you yet.”

They really should have had a talk first but dear god when Sherlock moved his hips like _that_ , John could only moan and nod.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter successfully proves that the Sherlock fandom has stripped me of any shame I may have once possessed.

There was a hand splayed across John’s inner thigh the whole way back to Baker Street. Sherlock was apparently, amongst other things, an excellent actor, because his expression remained calm, almost bored, and no one on the outside of the cab would have known that he was groping his flatmate. The cabbie glanced at them in the mirror once or twice and John fought to remain composed, hoping that the little hitches in his breath every time the back of Sherlock’s hand grazed against the bulge in his trousers weren’t audible. 

Finally - _finally_ \- the cab pulled up to 221 Baker Street. A handful of notes was thrown at the cabbie as Sherlock pushed the door open and got out gracefully, dragging John behind him. They stumbled up the stairs and John fumbled with his key, his aim off due to the long, dexterous fingers now cupping his arse. Sherlock purred, breathing heavily in John’s ear as he pulled the cheeks apart, thumbs pushing material between in a move that he seemed to favour, possibly because every time he did it John’s knees went weak and his aim got that much worse.

“Sherlock,” he moaned at last, leaning against the door. The cotton material of his pants was dragged over his entrance and he shuddered, pushing back. One thumb pressed against his hole, sliding inside just a little before the material refused to stretch any more. “God, you’re going to kill me. Stop teasing.”

“It’s not a tease if I intend to follow through,” Sherlock murmured with a deep chuckle that seemed to reverberate through John’s body. Still, he pulled away, and John had to bite his lip to hold back the thin whimper of protest. He arched against the door at the feeling of Sherlock’s hand sliding beneath his belt, under his trousers and pants, covering bare skin. Almost immediately, he was being spread again and there was the nudge of a hot finger at his entrance. John panted, hanging his head, as Sherlock’s finger slipped inside to the first knuckle.

The door flew open. 

John would’ve fallen forward on his face, but Sherlock’s free hand, wrapped around his waist, kept him standing. He looked up to see Mrs Hudson staring down at the two of them. “I thought I heard something,” she said. “Having some trouble with the lock? It gave me a bit of difficulty the other day, too. I might have to call a locksmith.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Sherlock said, somehow managing to sound normal even as he pushed his finger deeper inside to the second knuckle. He wiggled it around and tried not to smirk when John’s knees buckled as a result.

“John, dear, are you alright? You’re quite flushed.”

“F-fine,” John stuttered. His cock was so hard he couldn’t believe she had missed it. The thought that at any moment she might discover what Sherlock was doing to him made his heart race. “We’re just at… ah!… a crime scene.” His face flushed in mortification.

Mrs Hudson nodded knowingly. “Of course, you boys and your fun,” she said. “It’s indecent.”

Fervently hoping that she never found out just how indecent they truly were, John just nodded and forced his shaking legs to take small steps forward until he was inside. Sherlock followed right behind him, sliding his finger deeper until it was fully entrenched in John’s body. Only then did he press a second finger to the little puckered entrance and begin easing that one inside. John’s jaw clenched and his eyes fluttered shut but otherwise he gave no indication that he was being finger fucked in front of their landlady.

“Decent people never have any fun,” Sherlock replied. And make no mistake, this was _fun_. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, watching John wriggle around his fingers. It had to burn a little, but John was still loose and a little wet from their earlier activities, and if it did sting he didn’t seem to mind. “Don’t you agree, John?”

John looked like he had no idea what he was agreeing to, but he nodded regardless. His legs were shaking and he had grabbed onto Sherlock’s coat with one white-knuckled fist as the second finger slid home. He couldn’t take much more stimulation and Sherlock knew it, relished in it. He wanted to see how far he could push John, how much John would be willing to submit to him, his alpha. Deliberately he spread his fingers, zeroing in on his target with unerring accuracy. Almost gently, he fluttered his fingers overtop of the small gland in a long slow sweep.

A strange keening sound erupted from John. It was swiftly choked off as his hands tightened in Sherlock’s coat. Mrs Hudson looked alarmed. “Are you ill, John?”

“He’s fine,” said Sherlock, knowing that there was no way John would be able to respond. It was glorious having John trembling beside him, feeling the way that John was trying so hard not to thrust back, to give the game away. Knowing that he was _letting_ Sherlock do this, that as an omega he was putting himself in this place – 

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said, and there was a glint in her eyes, an indulgent smile on her lips. “Why don’t you two go upstairs and I’ll bring you up some dinner later?”

As tempting as it was to push it, to see how much John could squirm, there were some things that Sherlock realized he didn’t want to share. Regrettably, he said good-bye to Mrs Hudson, agreeing to the idea of dinner later, and half-hustled, half-carried his omega up the stairs to their flat, fully enjoying every little gasp that worked its way out of John’s mouth when the movement of climbing the stairs made Sherlock’s fingers shift inside of him. As soon as they were in the flat with the door shut he pinned John to the wall.

“Do you know,” he said, punctuating every word with another sweep of his fingers, “what it’s like to be inside of you, John? I knew I had an addictive personality but I believe I’m becoming addicted to _this_.” A little more pressure and John whimpered, held up only by the steady pressure of Sherlock’s body. “I could stay inside of you all day and never become bored. You have no idea how fascinating that is to me. I’d quite enjoy keeping my fingers inside of you when I can’t have my cock up your arse.”

“Sherlock.” John writhed and whined, “Please.”

Something softened in Sherlock’s eyes and he ducked his head, watching John’s face closely as he worked his free hand between their bodies and palmed John’s cock as he touched that little gland again. John’s head flew back and he gasped, his throat constricting around a scream as he shuddered. Sherlock knew he would never become tired of this, of seeing the way that John lost control at his touch and came apart even when the all consuming lust of the heat wasn’t upon them. He breathed in deeply, relishing the way his nose was flooded with the pure, musky scent of his omega. The cloth of the trousers grew damp beneath his fingers and he groaned as he lifted his hand to his nose.

“You... You’re mad,” John said helplessly.

Sherlock just smiled. “Bedroom,” he commanded. “You’ve made a mess and I want to clean it up.” He licked his lips and watched John’s eyes dilate further. Shakily, John nodded and Sherlock stepped back, giving him a bit of space. John hesitated, but when Sherlock failed to remove his fingers he squared his shoulders and walked to the bedroom as best he could, impaled, with his alpha not a step behind.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock made good on his promise. It took him a good hour to lick John clean, as he made sure to take his time and meticulously remove every trace of come from John’s skin, bringing them both off in the process. John was exhausted in the end. He lay back in the bed, body tingling all over with the residual sensation of pure pleasure, staring up at the ceiling as Sherlock moved to lie down next to him with a sound that could only be described as satisfied. A silence fell over the room, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. John felt warm and safe, and for once he thought he could’ve fallen asleep without the fear of nightmares creeping up on him, but there was something pressing on his mind and he couldn’t let it go. He had to know.

“Sherlock, what’s a camp?” he asked, the words coming out somewhat slurred. 

There was a split second pause during which he could feel the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze sliding over him, measuring and assessing. “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Sherlock replied at last. “Doubtless you know that werewolves weren’t very accepted until recent years, when it was discovered how valuable a resource we could be in police work and government, and even now there’s a lot of social stigma against us.” He shifted, propping himself up with his arm. “Well, in the hierarchy of werewolves omegas were considered to be at the bottom for a long time. When a wolf presented as an omega they were removed from their pack and placed into the camps in order to be trained to service an alpha. It was played off as being a way to protect them during their heats, but even changed omegas that didn’t experience a heat were taken. When an alpha came of age, they would be taken to the closest camp and told to pick out an omega as their mate.”

John went still, horror flooding through him at the idea. He’d certainly never heard _that_ about wolves before. “But...” he started and then trailed off. He tried again. “That’s...”

“It’s not done anymore,” Sherlock went on calmly. “Omegas started becoming rarer and then the process was outlawed entirely about ten years ago. I think Mycroft had something to do with that, though he’d never admit it. Of course the illegal camps still exist. Lucy probably came from one of those.”

Sherlock continued to talk but John wasn’t listening. He was trying to imagine how much worse his life would have been if he’d been taken to a camp after being released from Afghanistan. He couldn’t. The very idea was enough to make his stomach shrivel up and he let out a breath that sounded choked. He wouldn’t have... there was _no way_. John knew in a flash of cold inspiration that he would have turned his gun on himself before he would have allowed anyone to take him to some camp, where he’d be forced to wait for an alpha to walk in and decide that he looked like a decent fuck. A _camp_ , for fuck’s sake, where he would’ve been useless to anyone, a token tossed aside just because biology had failed him. For certain he wouldn’t have met Sherlock and somehow that seemed worst of all.

“John? John!” There was a warm voice speaking directly in his ear and something hovering over his mouth and nose. Startled, John took a deep breath and his nostrils were flooded with Sherlock’s scent. He choked and started to cough as his lungs vehemently protested the brief lack of breathing. Sherlock sighed and settled back down next to him, though he kept his wrist near John’s face. And John, even though he wouldn’t have admitted it, was grateful for that small kindness. He turned his cheek against Sherlock’s pulse and took another deep, shuddering breath as the rhythm throbbed against him.

“It sounds horrible,” he said hoarsely, realizing that he was shivering a little.

“I said it’s not done anymore,” Sherlock muttered. He had his phone in one hand and the light was casting an eerie glow over his face, but he was looking at John. “You don’t have anything to worry about. No one will take you away from me.”

That was... oddly more reassuring than it probably should have been. John closed his eyes rather than respond and curled up, pressing his face to Sherlock’s bare, damp shoulder. Rather than squirm away, Sherlock’s hand came down on top of his head and rested there idly while he turned his attention to his phone, checking up on texts. It was nice and warm and John quickly found himself being lulled into sleep by the soft sound of Sherlock’s breathing and the gentle clicking of buttons.

But then Sherlock gasped and, in the span of a minute, rolled off of the bed and began dressing, yanking his trousers on and quickly buttoning up his shirt. John looked at him in bleary confusion and Sherlock said by way of explanation, “Lestrade – don’t worry about it. Stay here.” He swept out of the room, and John heard the door closing followed by rapid footsteps on the stairs. So much for a lazy afternoon spent in bed with his flatmate/friend/lover/whatever Sherlock was.

He drifted, sliding in and out of a heady sleep, but he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t hear the creak of footsteps out in the hall. His eyes flashed open and he sat up, instinctively reaching for a gun that wasn’t there, but the man had already entered the room. John found himself on the other side of a gun that was all too familiar and a stranger who looked like he knew how to use it. “Get dressed, Doctor Watson,” the man said calmly. “We’re going for a little ride.”


	24. Chapter 24

The man gave John just enough time to pull on a pair of trousers and a jumper before hustling him down the stairs. He kept the gun trained on John the whole time, preventing him from grabbing his phone or doing anything that might’ve left a clue for Sherlock. John gritted his teeth but obeyed, keeping a close eye on the gun. He was thankful that at least Mrs Hudson seemed to be out, as he wouldn’t have wanted her to get into the middle of this. He moved towards the car idling in front of 221 – a cab – and paused, half-hoping that the man would be stupid enough to take his attention off of John in order to open the door.

A smirk crossed the man’s face and he shook his head lightly. “Go ahead.”

John did. He noticed that there was another man sitting at the wheel, but John couldn’t tell who it was. His face was covered by a hat pulled down low and a coat collar turned up high and he didn’t turn to face them as the two of them got in. John put his seatbelt on automatically as the man with the gun spoke to the driver.

“Drive,” he said, keeping his gun trained on John.

“Who are you?” John asked, unable to remain silent any longer. “Why are you kidnapping me?”

“You can thank your alpha for this, Doctor Watson,” the man replied. “If he’d only done what we wanted him to do, this wouldn’t have been necessary. I was warned about trusting Sherlock Holmes to do something…” He gave a low laugh of disbelief. “Bloody bastard can’t do anything right, not even when he’s given the perfect set up!”

John frowned at that, his mind racing. Was this an enemy of Sherlock’s? Or someone Sherlock had been working with? There was something going on that he was missing. He glanced out the window, watching the city streets flashing by at high speed. He felt a little more clearheaded now that they were away from 221, aware enough to know that he would need all of the information he could get. He turned back and said, “I’m afraid I don’t follow. What exactly is it that you want Sherlock to do for you?”

“It doesn’t really matter what he was supposed to do,” the man said pleasantly. “Holmes is going to do whatever we want. I’ve got all of the incentive I need right here.”

“With me?” John couldn’t help it. He grinned. “You’re bloody insane if you think you can make Sherlock do something just because of me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. You’re his omega. It’s built into his genetics and no one can deny that,” the man replied. 

“We’re not bonded. It’s not like that.” The automatic denial spilled out before John could stop it, but it was the truth. Nothing had been solidified between him and Sherlock. As things stood they were still just flatmates who happened to fuck.

The man looked far more amused by this than he had any right to be. “You don’t know a lot about alphas and omegas do you, Doctor Watson? Been feeling a little strange around Holmes lately? A bit more submissive, perhaps?” He lowered the gun just an inch, not enough for John to be able to safely make a move, and continued, “A strong army man like yourself, I imagine it’s a bit confusing that you’d like nothing better than to roll over and let him do whatever he likes. Well allow me to put you at rest. That’s your body getting itself ready for the mating process. As soon as I saw Holmes look at you with the gold in his eyes I knew. It’s a classic sign that his wolf wants to bond with you. Before your next heat is out…” He nodded confidently.

John just stared at him, momentarily too flummoxed to answer. He’d noticed the gold in Sherlock’s eyes at regular intervals but he’d never thought anything more of it. Apparently ignoring it had been a mistake on his part. When he saw Sherlock again, they were going to be having a _long_ talk, because there was no way Sherlock hadn’t noticed what was going on. He shifted on the seat and said, “You may think so, but I know Sherlock better than you do.”

“True, but I’m an alpha and I know everything there is to know about what happens when an alpha’s omega goes missing.” The man reached up and tugged at his scalp, digging his fingers in and peeling away what turned out to be a very realistic looking head of hair. He took his glasses off and rubbed at his face, smearing make-up. When he looked up again, John recognized him.

“Hope!” he exclaimed. So much for Sherlock’s theory that he and Lucy would be miles away.

“Doctor Watson,” Jefferson Hope nodded. “So nice to see you again. Here’s how it’s going to go. Your alpha messed up my plans. He was supposed to pin Lucy’s murder on Drebber. That bastard stole my omega. He deserves to be in jail at the very least.” There was a mad light in Hope’s eyes. “But instead Holmes figured it all out and Drebber gets to walk around free. Well, that’s fine. If he’s so smart then he’ll be able to figure out how to frame Drebber for something else. As long as Drebber gets what’s coming to him you’ll be back at home before the next full moon. If he doesn’t, well...” 

“You can’t just - ” The words died a quick death when Hope lifted the gun again. It was obvious he wouldn’t have any hesitation in making use of it. John’s eyes fell to the weapon and he swallowed his protest before turning away. Hopefully Hope would take it as a sign of being cowed. In reality it was anything but. There was no way he was going to let Hope blackmail Sherlock into breaking the law. He would wait for the right opportunity and then he would escape.


	25. Chapter 25

Sherlock swept into NSY without giving so much as a passing glance towards any of the officers that were lingering around. Fortunately, most of them had long since learned to stay out of his way and he was given a wide berth as he made his way up to Lestrade’s office. The door was closed and he could see through the glass wall that Lestrade was deep in conversation with Sally Donovan. He gave them both a quick scan as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Lestrade looked well rested (pants ironed, shirt crisp), well fed (slight bulge in his tummy, distinct lack of nicotine patches) and well fucked (the tip of a bruise in the shape of teeth marks was just visible above the collar of his shirt). He shuddered inwardly.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow. “You could knock, you know.”

“Why?” Sherlock replied shortly, forcing himself to _not_ deduce anything about Donovan. Lestrade had been bad enough. “You knew I was coming.”

“It’s what polite people do, Freak,” said Donovan coolly. She looked past him for a moment, eyeing the door, and then smirked when John didn’t come through. “Did that omega ditch you already? Good for him. I warned him that you were a dangerous bastard. Seems he took my advice.”

He hadn’t known that Donovan had spoken to John, but it wasn’t surprising. “If you must know, he’s at home,” Sherlock said, his tone making it clear that it was really none of her business. “Generally the cases you give me are so simple that I didn’t think there was any need for him to come.” He pivoted to face Lestrade and arched an eyebrow in a way that said Lestrade had thirty seconds to present the case or he was leaving.

Lestrade just rolled his eyes and reached towards his desk. He picked up a package, about the size of a small paperback book, and held it out to Sherlock. “We haven’t got a case. This was dropped off on my desk. I found it when I got back from dealing with Drebber. I contacted you right away. Thought it might be important.”

The package was wrapped up in plain brown paper and tied with gritty rope fashioned into a rough knot on top. Sherlock took it and examined it, noting the thick block letters on top that spelled out his first name. Written by a man, obviously, but not a man who had been in a hurry. Each letter was pressed deeply into the waxy paper and written deliberately. He lifted the package to his nose and caught the faintest whiff of perfume that smelled like lilacs and honeysuckle. It was a familiar smell and something in his chest squeezed hard.

“Sherlock?” The amusement had vanished from Lestrade’s face.

Ignoring him, Sherlock slipped the rope off and tore the paper away to reveal a cardboard box. Inside was a little black mobile phone, a disposable one that probably hadn’t cost very much and that could be picked up at any store. Lestrade and Donovan watched with wide eyes as he took the phone out of the box and, after a cursory examination, pressed the button to turn it on. The screen lit up with a logo and a tinny little song played. As soon as the main screen flashed on, it rang and vibrated at the same time.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. The person on the other end was either watching them or had been calling repeatedly. He put it to his ear and said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr Holmes.” It was a man’s voice. London accent with a hint of something else, Ireland possibly. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gone through the trouble of leaving you a little present. Well, the thing is, I’ve got something that belongs to you and I’m guessing you’d like to know how you can get him back.”

It took every last inch of Sherlock’s composure to not stiffen or otherwise let on to Donovan or Lestrade that something was wrong. “Where is he?” he asked shortly.

“Right here with me and safe for now. I’d let you have a moment to speak to him but he’s busy, and I trust that you’re a smart enough man to know that I’m not playing around. Now listen. I don’t really want to hurt him. To be honest with you the thought of it turns my stomach. But if you don’t do exactly what I say than you’re going to have to suffer the consequences, understand?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his mind already racing. He could hear shuffling sounds in the background but the noises blended together and refused to clarify. 

The man chuckled. “You’ll never find us so I suggest you listen close to my instructions, Mr Holmes. I want you to frame Edwin Drebber. I don’t care how you do it as long as it’s for a crime that sends him to prison for no less than twenty-two years. Do you understand me?” There was a peculiar bite to his words, like he was struggling not to get angry. “You’ve got exactly three days to come up with a plan. Seventy-two hours from now I’m going to take your omega into the back room, put my gun against his temple, and squeeze the trigger.”

A nauseous feeling churned Sherlock’s stomach. It was coupled with a blinding rage at the thought of John being hurt in any way. “I _will_ hunt you down,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop or think better of them. 

Another soft laugh. “You can give it your best shot. Wouldn’t think much of you if you didn’t at least try. But I’m not being overconfident in thinking you won’t be able to find him on your own. If I were you, in between searches I’d start putting that infamous brain of yours to work on Drebber.” He paused and then added, “And I suggest you try to keep your little police friends out of it, too, unless you think they’re going to have a change of heart and help you put a criminal behind bars. Seventy-two hours, Mr Holmes, and if Drebber hasn’t been arrested you know what will happen.” He hung up.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade said again, and his voice was a good deal gentler this time. He didn’t need to be a wolf to know that something bad had just happened. He stepped closer and rested a hand on Sherlock’s arm, glancing at the phone. “What’s going on?”

“John’s been kidnapped,” Sherlock replied blankly. Lestrade swore softly and Donovan gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth. She started to say something but Sherlock ignored her as he strode out of the office. He didn’t know where he was going but he knew he needed to get away so that he could _think_. Neither of them followed.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear up some confusion, Lestrade is _not_ pregnant. I know some of you jumped to that conclusion but he's not.

John was expecting Hope to take him to some out of the way building, a warehouse possibly, where they would be away from other people. Instead Hope directed the cab to one of the more expensive hotels in downtown London, and when they got there he turned to face John. “I’m putting the gun in my pocket but don’t think I’ll hesitate to use it on you or anyone else,” he told John. “Make a scene and I guarantee you that someone is going to suffer it, got it?”

It only took John a second to glance around and note all of the innocent people around the hotel, including several children. “Yeah, I got it,” he muttered, getting out of the cab carefully. Surprisingly, the cabbie also climbed out and came around, falling into step on the other side of John. The three of them walked into the hotel together and headed for the lift, where they got off on the fourth level. Hope led the way down the hall to room 418. He took out a key card and slid it through the reader before pushing the door open.

“Jefferson, you’re back!” Lucy Drebber was standing between the two beds, her face beaming. She was every bit as young and pretty as the photo had made her out to be, though in person there were additional lines to her face that make-up couldn’t hide. When she saw John, her smile slowly tightened before vanishing completely. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“No worries, love,” Hope said soothingly, crossing to clasp his omega in his arms. “I’m making sure, that’s all. I don’t want Drebber following us again when we leave. He took you away from me once, Lucy. I want to make sure that never happens again, don’t you?”

Lucy looked torn. “But Jeff, you’ve taken another omega away from his alpha. That’s just as bad.”

“It’s not forever, babe. Not as long as his alpha does what I want him to do. And I’m not going to do to him what Drebber did to you.” Hope touched her cheek gently, like she was a precious treasure that would crumble into dust if he pressed too hard. “I swear. As soon as I get what I want he’s free to walk out the door and go home. In the meantime he can keep you company.”

“Oh. I’d like that.” Her eyes brightened a little and she smiled shyly at John, who couldn’t help smiling back until Hope took out his gun again. 

“Over there, on the bed,” Hope said, gesturing to the bed closest to the window. John obeyed, taking a seat near the headboard, and, as he’d suspected would happen, Hope took out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them around John’s wrists, weaving the chain through one of the strong metal parts that made up the headboard. It made for an awkward angle that John knew would be difficult to escape from and his shoulder immediately began to ache. 

“Is that really necessary?” Lucy asked.

“Can’t have him running back to his alpha before our plans are carried out,” said Hope, tucking the gun back into his waistband. “John, I’ve got to go run a few errands. Make sure that he doesn’t try anything.”

The cabbie, who until that moment had been standing near the door, shifted forward a step and nodded. His hat rode up, exposing a face that John was more familiar with than he’d been expecting. John Ferrier, Lucy’s father. Of course, it made sense. He wondered if he could convince Ferrier or Lucy to let him go, or to at least take the cuffs off so that he could make an escape. Though he knew Ferrier from his time at the Center, he could tell the chances that the man would fall for that were slim to none, but Lucy looked a bit like a bleeding heart. 

Hope left and John put his acting skills to work immediately. He slumped heavily against the headboard and couldn’t contain the wince as his throbbing shoulder violently protested the movement. Lucy paused from where she was folding clothing and placing it into a suitcase and stared at him worriedly. John shot her a brave smile and shifted because the pain really was a little unbearable. He let his head roll back on his shoulders and glanced around the room. They were high enough up that going out the window wasn’t a plan so the only escape route was the door. Ferrier would need to be compromised in some way – he was a good twenty years old than John but he was both taller and huskier – and he’d need to get the handcuffs off.

“I’m thirsty,” he said out loud. “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?”

“Oh, sure,” Lucy said. She fetched a glass and went into the bathroom, filling it with tap water before bringing it over to him. Closer up, John could see the tell-tale evidence of bruising poorly concealed by make-up. It framed the curve of her cheekbone and went all the way down to her chin before it was hidden by the way her hair fell loose over her shoulders. She stiffened when she realized where he was looking. “I guess my skills aren’t quite good enough to hide it all.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” said John. Drebber had been a snake but he’d never imagined the man possessed that level of cowardliness. It made his blood boil with anger. “Why didn’t you run away before?”

“I couldn’t,” she said sadly. “Even though the bond didn’t take all the way he was still my alpha. Could you imagine leaving yours behind?”

John stared at her and, against his will, tried to picture leaving Sherlock. It didn’t compute. His life would be empty without the madman to fill it. “No.” But then, Sherlock had never hit him, either.

“I didn’t think so.” She tipped the glass to John’s lips so he could drink and continued, “It wasn’t so bad most of the time. He only ever hit me when he was drunk and he tried to mount me while I was in heat. He’d get angry that Jefferson kept me from belonging to him completely. And I guess I never gave up hope that Jefferson would come for me.”

He wasn’t sure what to say in response and settled for, “I’m sorry.”

Lucy smiled and helped him to drink the last of the water. “Don’t be. I’m much happier now.” She reached out and wiped a thin trickle of water from his chin. “And as soon as your alpha does what he’s supposed to, you’ll be back with him and we’ll be on our way. Everyone wins.”

John tried to smile back. Somehow he didn’t think this plan was going to work out. He waited until Lucy had moved away before he looked around the room, acting as though he was merely bored, though it didn’t seem that Ferrier was paying any attention to him. It didn’t take long before his eyes lit upon the mobile phone that was sitting on the other hand. If he could get to that phone and send a text to Sherlock... He inched over on the bed and paused when he realized that his vision was going dark and hazy, his muscles sluggish. Too late it dawned on him what it meant, and by then it was too late. The last he thing he felt was Lucy’s hand on his forehead and her soft voice whispering an apology.


	27. Chapter 27

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him urgently, and the sound of frantically murmuring voices woke John. He felt sluggish and disoriented as he opened his eyes, automatically bringing his hand up to massage the stiffness out of his aching shoulder. It was only once the pain wasn’t quite as blinding that it occurred to him that he shouldn’t have been able to do that. He looked up, squinting past the brilliant lights, and saw the strangely tense expression on John Ferrier’s face. Instantly, he realized three things: one, he was still kidnapped, two, he had been untied at some point, and three, there was something very wrong.

“You’re a doctor, correct?” Ferrier asked.

“Yes,” John said slowly. “What’s - ” He wasn’t given the chance to finish the question. Ferrier’s hand clasped his arm and pulled him to his feet. John swayed, his legs nearly giving out on him at the resulting lightheaded feeling, and was only kept standing by Ferrier’s firm grip. Ferrier led him around to the other bed.

Hope was laying there, a makeshift bandage of a sheet balled up and thrust against his stomach. The sheet was swiftly turning crimson. More blood was running freely down his arm and hand, the thin ruby ribbon snaking along his fingers and dribbling on the floor. His color was awful: his skin was as pale as the white sheets he was lying on and his dark eyes had gone hazy with pain. Lucy was perched on the bed beside him, her face streaked with tears. She kept reaching out and running her hand across Hope’s forehead. When she realized that John was awake, she turned a set of imploring eyes onto him, her breath catching on a flurry of sobs.

“Please. Please, you have to help him. Oh god, he’s dying. He’s _dying_!”

Ferrier released John and went to Lucy’s side, pulling his daughter into an embrace. “Can you do anything for him?” he asked, glancing back at John.

John tried to shake away the lingering fuzziness as he bent over Hope. He pried the sheet away and checked the wound, his stomach twisting at what he saw. Even if he’d had his medical kit it would’ve been touch and go. Without it he could do nothing, even if he wanted to help the man who had kidnapped him. He swallowed roughly and said, “You have to go to the A&E. They could help you.”

Hope smiled shakily. “Good man,” he said. His breathing was harsh, shallow. “You’re… a soldier. Would you… protect… Lucy?”

For a moment John didn’t understand. Then Ferrier handed him a gun, _his_ gun, the one that Hope had stolen from 221b. It felt good in John’s hand. He looked at Hope, the gun hanging limply by his side. “Who did this to you?”

“It was the camp,” said Ferrier. “Drebber must have contacted them for help in getting Lucy back.” He wore a look of mingled rage and hopelessness, the face of a man who knew he was going to die. “Jefferson got away from them but they know where we are. They have sources. They’ll be coming here to take Lucy back to him.” His arms tightened around his daughter. “Please. We’ll give you a head start, hold them off.”

There was a part of John that desperately wanted to say no even as he nodded his agreement. The lingering effect of the drug had mostly worn off and he knew that there was no way he was going to let Lucy be taken back to Drebber or the camps. No one deserved that sort of life and no matter what she’d done he would protect her to the best of his abilities. “Keep pressure on your wound,” he told Hope and then glanced at Ferrier. “Have you called for help?”

“Who would come?” Hope asked with a thin smile. Lucy sobbed louder.

“I can think of a few people,” John muttered, remembering the phone he’d seen before passing out. He fetched it and slid it into his pocket; he’d text Sherlock once he and Lucy were away from the hotel. 

“I won’t go,” Lucy said, lifting her head. “I won’t leave you again.”

“Yes you will,” said Hope firmly. “You will, Luce. I want you to. This isn’t the life you were meant for. Go with Watson. He’ll take you to some place safe and make sure you’re looked after.” It seemed to take all of his strength to reach out and pick up Lucy’s hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I’ll find you, alright? When this is over, we’ll be together again, I promise.”

Lucy tried to smile, though it came out looking more like a grimace. She lunged forward and kissed him desperately. Hope allowed the kiss for a few feverish seconds before gently pushing her away, and she went, pausing only to give her father a quick hug before she moved over to John’s side. Her hands were shaking when she lightly placed them on the crook of John’s elbow, the arm that wasn’t holding onto the gun. John glanced back at Ferrier and Hope as they walked to the door. He didn’t know if he’d see them again and to be honest he wasn’t sure he cared. As soon as he delivered Lucy into the hands of Lestrade, he was done.

He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, bringing Lucy with him. She was breathing hard as she shut the door behind them. “Keep calm,” John said to her in an undertone, scanning her quickly. Her clothing was rumpled and her eyes were swollen, but other than that she looked like a normal woman. They shouldn’t attract too much attention. He turned in the direction of the lift and heard Lucy give a strangled gasp.

“Drebber’s here,” she revealed in a strained whisper. “I can feel his presence. He’s pulling on the bond, trying to figure out where I am, only it’s shriveled up now that Jeff’s back… Oh god he’s coming for me.” She was shaking.

“Come on,” John said, abruptly spinning them both around. He hurried her down the hall towards the emergency stairs, his fingers tightening around the handle of the gun. He had the feeling that they were going to need it.


	28. Chapter 28

John felt rough, edgy with adrenaline, by the time that they made it outside. He had the feeling that whatever he had been drugged with had not completely left his system yet. His hands were shaking and his vision seemed oddly dim; it went cloudy and fuzzy sometimes when he tried too hard to focus or moved too quickly. The odds of him being able to shoot anyone were looking distinctly poor. He took Lucy’s hand and pulled her into a nearby alley. She came willingly, apparently trusting that he wasn’t going to just leave her behind and take off for parts unknown. Unfortunately, she was right. He couldn’t bring himself to do exactly that. However, there was something else he could do.

“I’m calling for help,” he said, pulling the phone out of his pocket.

“No!” Lucy made a wild grab for the phone. John dodged her easily. “No, you can’t, you don’t understand what kind of reach they have. They’ve got people everywhere - if you do they’re going to know where we are and they’ll come for me. You can’t, you _can’t_ \- ” She was rapidly growing hysterical and John sighed.

“Stop it,” he told her harshly, giving her a little shake. “I’m not going to get shot trying to protect you, got it? I’m calling someone.” If she was right and these people had so much reach that even NSY was corrupt… Well, that was a problem easily solved. He flipped the phone open and blocked another attempt to steal it. “Look, I’m not calling the police. I’m going to call my alpha, okay?” 

Lucy stilled and looked at him suspiciously. “Your alpha?”

“That’s right.” It was disturbing how easy it was to refer to Sherlock as his alpha. John tried not to think about it. He could tell from the expression on Lucy’s face that she wanted to protest the idea but wasn’t quite sure how to. As an omega herself, she could understand the concept of another omega wanting their alpha when they were in danger and John wasn’t about to tell her that it wasn’t like that. “I’ll call him. He has a brother in high places. They’ll be able to help as soon as I let them know where we are.”

She didn’t look terribly impressed but she nodded and stopped trying to take the phone, and he looked back down at the phone and tapped out a number he knew by heart. Sherlock normally preferred to text instead of talking but in this case John didn’t care, and if the bastard didn’t pick up the phone John was going to punch him in the face the next time they met. He heard the click of someone picking up and then there was a pause, a split second of silence, during which John couldn’t find the words to speak. Someone breathed wetly into the phone and then - 

“John?”

God. “Sherlock,” John croaked. 

“ _John_. Where are you?” Sherlock sounded like he was trying to be calm but there was an audible undercurrent of panic lacing through his tone. And there was something else in his voice, something that John didn’t dare examine too closely but which caused a tight knot in his chest to come loose.

He looked around and found a few familiar landmarks which he rattled off at breakneck speed. He knew that Sherlock would know where they were immediately. “People from the camp are here,” he added. “Drebber must have called them. Jefferson Hope is the one who kidnapped me but he was shot. He and Lucy’s father stayed behind at the hotel to give us a bit of time to run.”

“She’s there with you?” Sherlock growled.

“Yes.” John glanced at Lucy. She was staring out at the street with a woebegone expression, like a puppy abandoned on the side of the road. “We’ve got a gun but I’m not sure how much use it’s going to be. So if you could hurry and bring Lestrade with you…”

“Stay there, John,” Sherlock instructed, and now he sounded breathless. Hopefully it meant that he was already on his way. “Don’t move.”

“I won’t,” John said to the dial tone. He sighed and closed the phone. In spite of Sherlock’s suggestion (command), he didn’t think that it was a good idea to stand in an alley for the next however many minutes it would take. They had no cover here. He turned to Lucy. “There’s a Starbucks across the street. We’ll go sit down and wait there.”

Lucy nodded. “Alright. What’s he like?”

“What’s who like?” John asked, though he was fairly certain he knew who she was referring to. He put a hand over the gun in his waistband and stepped out onto the pavement.

“Your alpha.”

“He’s a git,” John said frankly. It was the best way he could think of to describe Sherlock, who could easily drive a man much better than John to distraction. “He plays the violin at all hours of the night and hardly ever sleeps. Doesn’t eat much, either, and he seems to think that the whole world should be able to keep up with him. He insults everyone around him on a regular basis. It’s a wonder no one has punched him in the face yet, especially since he can look at you and know almost everything about from just one look and have no hesitation in sharing that with everyone. It’s… amazing, really. No one appreciates what he can do.” He smiled just a little. “He figured out where you were and what had happened to you in no time at all.”

“You must be proud of him,” Lucy remarked as they entered the Starbucks. Her eyes were soft. “I heard him say he was coming for you. It’s nice having an alpha to take care of you, isn’t it?” 

John looked at her for a moment and his instinct was to point out that he was quite capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. He was a soldier and a doctor, regardless of whether he had been invalidated home, and just because he was also now a werewolf omega didn’t change anything. But the words caught in his throat at the last minute. Because in a way they were true: he liked living with Sherlock a lot more than he wanted to let on, liked that Sherlock seemed to need John as much as John needed Sherlock. He remembered waking up with Sherlock’s coat over him, thought about being held in Sherlock’s arms, and sighed.

“Yeah, it is,” he said and Lucy gave him a brilliant smile. She seemed to be warming up to him and that was surprisingly pleasant. It meant that he didn’t need to feel too poorly when a man came up behind her with a knife in hand and John shot him.


	29. Chapter 29

It happened like this. Lucy was in the middle of turning around to face the counter when John spotted the man who was standing behind her. He was a tall bloke, had a good several inches on both of them, with thinning black hair, broad shoulders and a mean look on his heavy face. Almost automatically, reacting with a sense of instinct John thought he had lost in the sands, he glanced down at the man’s hands and noted the knife clutched in one meaty fist. A wicked thing with half a dozen inches of gleaming blade, it was seconds away from Lucy’s unguarded spine when John’s hand snapped up and squeezed the trigger.

For a long moment after the initial gunshot there was only a stark, hushed silence as everyone turned to see what had happened. The man rocked backwards with a startled groan and tripped over a chair in his path. He crashed to the floor and that seemed to break the stunned daze; someone screamed and then there was a mad rush for the doors. John didn’t pay the fleeing customers any attention except to make sure that Lucy was still with him, and when he saw that she was he stepped closer, around the chair, and knelt, placing his gun against the smooth expanse of forehead. He pressed hard enough to feel the bone underneath.

“Who,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice, “sent you here?”

The man peered up at him. He’d been shot in the left arm and he was clutching feebly at the wound. He shook his head. “Not… gonna happen… mate.”

“Tell me,” John said and he pressed just a bit harder.

“Moriarty.” It came out in a choked gurgle, accompanied by a fine spray of blood and saliva that made John rear back on his heels. The bloke’s eyes rolled up in his head and his body gave a shuddering wheeze, and then he went still, blood trickling from his lips and down his chin. John stared down at him, baffled. The shot hadn’t been that serious, so why…? He reached down and caught the unwounded shoulder, wrenching it up. Immediately he realized what had happened. A knife - the knife that he’d intended to use on Lucy - had slid into his back when he fell and was deeply embedded between his shoulder blades. 

“Is he dead?” Lucy asked. She was standing near one of the tables a good distance away, but to her credit she had grabbed a dinner knife to use as protection.

John stood up wearily. “Yes, he is.”

“You’re an excellent shot, Doctor Watson.”

Both of them jumped and John spun, bringing the gun up for a second time. The speaker was a young woman with dark curls that fell freely around her shoulders. She was wearing an expensively cut suit with a cream shirt and she was holding a Blackberry, but at their perusal she raised her dark brown eyes and gave John a smile that was probably meant to be friendly. John stared at her warily, not lowering the gun, and realized that she was a werewolf. She had the flat, almost but not quite like a regular human, scent of a beta. He took another deep breath and realized that she also smelled like Mycroft.

“Who sent you?” he asked, just to be sure.

Her smile widened. “I believe you already know. Mr Holmes was quite concerned about you and has a good deal of the Pack out searching for you,” she said, her thumbs moving over the keys of her phone as she spoke. “The owner of this establishment recognized you and called it in. I apologize for not getting here in time to avoid this little mess.” Her glance towards the man on the floor was entirely disdainful. “I’ve been informed that the younger Mr Holmes is on his way and should be here any minute.”

_Sherlock_. More than anything, John wanted to see him, wanted a bit of normalcy back in the world (and he knew he’d been having a rough day when he started thinking of Sherlock as normal). He slowly lowered the gun, though he didn’t tuck it back into his waistband just yet. This woman didn’t seem like she was going to be a threat but he knew better than to be careless. “What’s your name?”

She looked at him for a moment. “Anthea.”

Not her real name, that much was evident, but she gave him a look that said to not press the issue and moved over to Lucy. In a gentle voice that he wouldn’t have assumed she was capable of, she coaxed Lucy into a chair and handed her a glass of water to sip. Without the adrenaline of knowing that danger was lurking, John suddenly felt like he was in need of a rest himself. He didn’t sit so much as fall into the nearest chair, his vision swimming, now aware of the painful throbbing in his shoulder and leg. Combined with a growing headache and a slight sluggish feeling from the remainder of the drug, he was content to sit still until the police showed up.

It didn’t take long. Within a handful of minutes a group of men and women dressed in black uniforms descended on the place, scouting out the back to make sure that no one else was hidden and checking out the body on the floor. A couple of them looked at John sceptically but Anthea gave a pointed clearing of her throat and John was promptly ignored. With them came Mycroft Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade. John couldn’t say that he was thrilled to see Mycroft but he mustered up a smile for Lestrade when the man walked over to him.

“Alright?” Lestrade asked. 

“Been better,” John replied honestly. Lestrade was so close that when John inhaled he couldn’t help taking in his scent. Human. He blinked and frowned up at him. Human?

“Sherlock will be here soon.” It was clearly meant to be a comforting comment, judging by the awkward, clumsy pat on the shoulder that came with it. “He was only a couple of minutes behind us. I expect it’s probably driving him round the bend that his brother got here first.”

John just nodded and was relieved when Lestrade seemed to take that as confirmation that he could step away. He slumped over, cushioning his head in his hands, and waited.


	30. Chapter 30

Approximately five minutes after Lestrade came back to check on John for the second time, the door flew open and Sherlock came in. It took him all of twenty seconds to take in and understand the situation, including the body on the floor, and locate John, who was slumped over sideways against a table near the back of the room, head loosely propped up on his right arm. Lestrade was bent over him wearing a concerned expression and the fact that he actually looked _relieved_ when Sherlock arrived was enough to make Sherlock nearly knock a couple of Mycroft’s agent off of their feet in his haste to get across the room to John. 

“It’s about time!” Lestrade said impatiently, running a hand through his hair. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I was unavoidably detained,” Sherlock replied, not bothering to go into details. There was more to this than any of them had first realized, it went far beyond even Drebber. He’d been at the flat when he received John’s call and while on the way to the alley he’d been attacked by a handful of men. The half dozen of them had been experienced fighters, but apparently none were smart enough to realize that getting in the way of an alpha and his omega was a good way to be seriously injured, if not killed. He’d dispensed with them as quickly as possible, driven by the underlying current of fear that he’d heard in John’s voice, but not even Sherlock Holmes could take down that many men easily.

Lestrade just shook his head and sighed, stepping aside so that Sherlock could see John. “He’s in a bad way but he refused to get checked out by the paramedics until you came.”

“John?” He spoke the name with a degree of hesitance that he wasn’t used to. John had stirred when he approached but he had yet to lift his head. Sherlock crouched down in front of him in an easy, graceful movement that made Lestrade huff and said, “John, it’s me. Are you alright?”

“Sherlock?” John had his eyes closed but his head lifted and turned now in Sherlock’s direction. Lestrade was, for once, completely correct. John did not look well. His face was pale, devoid of his usual colouring, and he was shaking almost imperceptibly. When he finally opened his eyes, his pupils were smaller than normal, and his hand was trembling badly when he shifted and reached out to Sherlock. The movement seemed to unbalance him and he tilted, sliding out of the chair. Sherlock went down on one knee and caught him instinctively. He balanced John on his knee and laid two fingers over his wrist as John slumped against him.

“He’s been drugged,” he said, first deduction confirmed. The pulse beneath his fingers seemed weak and fluttered far more slowly than it should have. “Adrenaline probably kept the effects back for a while but depending on what they gave him… John was probably never told about medication for werewolves and how much stronger it is.”

“Damn Centre,” Lestrade muttered. “Alright, we’ve got an ambulance that can take him to the hospital.” He looked at Sherlock. “Are you staying?”

Sherlock hesitated, torn. On the one hand there was so much evidence to be gathered and he hated the thought of missing any of it, of it being contaminated by idiots like Anderson. But on the other hand, there was _John_. It didn’t take long for him to make his decision. “Keep the scene as uncontaminated as possible,” he ordered, scooping John into his arms as he stood up. John groaned low in his chest at the sudden change in height and buried his face in Sherlock’s throat.

There was something like approval in Lestrade’s face. “I’ll text you.”

With a short nod Sherlock carried John out to the ambulance, pointedly ignoring the smirk on Mycroft’s face as he marched past. The paramedics were both betas who were understandably wary about how they touched an omega under his alpha’s supervision. They were able to get John comfortable on the gurney and one of them hooked up an IV line. “He’ll be fine,” she said to Sherlock. “They’ll probably give him a check-up to make sure the dose wasn’t too strong and then you’ll be able to take him home. I expect he’ll sleep it off for the most part. Do you know what he was given?”

“No.” There were a lot of sedatives that would’ve caused John’s symptoms. He suspected that it was nothing stronger than over-the-counter sleep medication but it was far better to be safe than sorry. “There was someone back at the scene who would know. My brother will probably have the information waiting when we get to the hospital.” It caused a sour taste at the back of his throat to depend on Mycroft for _anything_ , even the questioning of Lucy Drebber. Mycroft would be insufferable after this.

“Sherlock?” John said again. He sounded slightly more aware but his voice was still slurred. The paramedic nodded and turned away, looking at the machines as the ambulance began to move. Sherlock shifted on the small stool, moving close enough that John would be able to smell and see him. John turned his head in Sherlock’s direction and looked at him with fuzzy blue eyes. “Are you really here? Are we going home?”

“Not yet, John. You have to go to the hospital first,” Sherlock replied softly. John screwed his face up and muttered something unintelligible before his eyes drifted shut, the drug sweeping him away. He remained asleep during the rest of the ride to the hospital and it was only when the paramedics tried to separate him from Sherlock that he stirred, thrashing in the throes of a nightmare he couldn’t seem to escape from, mouth opening to release a panicked cry. Sherlock immediately reached for his scarf and unwound it from around his neck, placing it beside John’s head. The proximity of the scent calmed him and one of the paramedics shot Sherlock a grateful look. He glared at her in response as they wheeled John away, not liking the fact that John had been taken from him again so soon and that all he could do was wait.

Fortunately, Lestrade showed up about twenty minutes later, just in time to stop Sherlock from making a fourth nurse in a row cry. “Really?” he said, watching the nurse hurry away from them. “Really, Sherlock?”

“She was having an affair with one of the doctors,” Sherlock muttered. “If she didn’t want to be caught she shouldn’t have been so obvious.”

Lestrade just shot him a Look. “I brought the name of the drug John was given. Lucy Drebber gave it up as soon as Sally asked her for it. He’ll be fine. He’ll be sluggish for a day or two but once he sleeps it off he’ll be _fine_.” He purposely didn’t say that if John had been human the dosage would have, in all likelihood, killed him. He didn’t have to. Sherlock already knew and, judging by the look on his face, once he found out who was behind this there would be war. And after seeing what kind of shape John Watson had been in, Lestrade was strangely okay with that.


	31. Chapter 31

The soft sound of tapping keys woke John from a muddled sleep. He felt sluggish and hazy and it was harder than it should have been to make his eyes open. The room was dark, lit only by the familiar glow of the screen coming from a laptop, and he inclined his head just enough to be able to make out Sherlock. The detective was sitting beside him on the bed, propped up on a couple of spare pillows, deeply involved in whatever he was looking at. Judging by how fast his fingers were flying over the keys John suspected he was answering e-mails. 

“Sh’lock?” he slurred and then frowned. His tongue and lips both felt heavy and forming words was difficult. 

“You’re awake.” Never one for stating the obvious, Sherlock turned his head and studied John intently for a long moment. Apparently he found what he was looking for because he pushed the lid of the laptop down and set the machine aside. At John’s inquiring look, he said, “You’ve woken up three times before now but then you were only semi-conscious and I doubt you recall what happened.”

That was true. The last thing John remembered was sitting down at a table in that Starbucks and talking to Lestrade. Everything after that was a blur. He didn’t even know when Sherlock had arrived. “How long?”

“Approximately thirty hours,” said Sherlock. “Once the hospital checked you over they gave me leave to bring you home. They said you’d need to sleep it off.” He eyed John critically. “You’re likely over the worst of it now but you’ll remain weak and somewhat disoriented for another hour or two.”

“Lovely,” John sighed, pillowing his head on his hands. He’d never been drugged before, or at least not like this, and he could feel a slow, sweet exhaustion trying to drag him back down. He fought against it. There was too much he wanted to know. “What happened?”

“Drebber is dead,” Sherlock told him. “He was murdered, likely by a member of the camp, though there’s no proof.” His jaw twitched, as though admitting that out loud caused him physical pain. “The members of the camp were long gone by the time Lestrade and Mycroft’s men got to the hotel. John Ferrier is also dead. Jefferson Hope, on the other hand, survived.”

“He did?” That surprised John. From what he could recall Hope had been in pretty bad shape. 

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Werewolves are much stronger than humans,” he pointed out. “That’s one of the reasons that your system is having a difficult time dealing with the drug you were given. You may be a werewolf but you’re still a pup. That dosage could’ve just as easily killed you.”

There was something about the way that Sherlock said that, but John found he was too tired to examine it properly. He filed it away for later examination and let his eyes slide shut. “So Lucy and Hope were reunited?” he asked. He shouldn’t have cared, not after what they’d done, but the pain of Lucy’s despair at seeing Hope dying had stayed with him. Considering Sherlock’s line of work, it was far too easy to imagine the same thing happening someday to him and John. He shivered.

Pale eyes narrowed slightly but Sherlock made no comment as he reached out and yanked the blankets up around John’s shoulders. Finally, he said, “Yes, as far as I know. Lestrade knows I don’t really care for such details. My guess is they’ll both be given new identities and relocated. Hope will probably have to sign his life away to my brother in return for charges not being pressed.” Sherlock sounded oddly approving about that and John opened his eyes a little, peering up at the man before giving an amused shake of his head.

“So it all ended well then,” he muttered through a yawn. He turned his head slightly into the pillow and curled up more. Words couldn’t adequately describe how good it felt to be back in 221b, knowing that Sherlock was right next to him and that both of them were safe. 

“Yes…”

“You don’t sound like you agree,” John said, looking back up at him.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about right now,” Sherlock replied. John narrowed his eyes, wondering if he should press the matter. There was clearly something going on and after what they’d just been through he didn’t like the idea of Sherlock keeping secrets. But he wasn’t sure he was up to prying the truth out of the man at the moment. Reluctantly, he decided to let it go for the time being. 

He sighed and decided to change the subject. There was something niggling at him, a curiosity that he didn’t know how to explain. “Why is Lestrade a human?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, actually looking a little surprised by the question. “Because he’s not a werewolf.”

John glared. Sherlock smirked. “You know what I mean, Sherlock.”

“Lestrade is human because he’s afraid of being a werewolf.” Sherlock pulled the laptop back onto his lap, though he didn’t open it. “You know that in London many of the more esteemed positions are held by wolves simply because we are stronger, faster and for the most part better than humans. Lestrade is one of the few humans who have managed to rise above that and part of the reason is because he’s Mycroft’s mate in everything but the physical bond. It’s a matter of time before he gives in and lets Mycroft change him. I estimate it will probably be only a few weeks now. He’s been holding out for years but seeing you has worn him down.”

“Me?” John frowned. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Mycroft is an alpha. Lestrade will be his mate.” When John just continued to look blank, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Extended contact with an alpha, particularly of the sexual variety, tends to cause omegas in turned werewolves,” he said in an exaggeratedly patient voice. “Whether it’s because of exposure to the alphas themselves or because alphas are naturally drawn to humans who will become omegas is unknown, though I have my own theories. Regardless, Lestrade knows this. He doesn’t want to be an omega. Or at least he didn’t be until it occurred to him, through you, that being an omega doesn’t mean he’ll have to sit at home like a good little wife.” His lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Mycroft will probably want to thank you.”

“Joy,” John muttered, unable to think of anything he wanted less. He closed his eyes again, all of his questions temporarily answered, and sighed. As he drifted back to sleep, he felt long fingers sliding around the back of his neck, holding him protectively and keeping him safe.


	32. Chapter 32

By the time John woke up again, the bed beside him was distinctly empty and lacking a certain detective and he had the sense that a while had passed. He reached out and passed a hand over the spot, realizing that the sheets were cold and stiff, meaning Sherlock had been up for quite some time. He wondered if another case had come in. Blearily he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, wincing as his shoulder protested the sudden change in position. The muscles felt painfully tight and when he curled his hand into a fist his fingers twitched weakly with the effort. He thought it possible that he’d wrenched it at some point during the past couple of days, even though he had no memory of doing so.

He put his feet down on the floor and stood up cautiously, prepared for the way that the world spun when he was vertical. The last of the drug had likely left his system by now but it would take his body a little while to get used to not laying down. He grabbed the nearest article of clothing - Sherlock’s red dressing gown, seriously, John didn’t know how many the man had but it had to be at least half a dozen - and pulled it on before slowly moved out into the hallway. He could hear voices out in the living room but he went into the bathroom first. Once he’d relieved himself and washed his face and was certain he didn’t want to head back to bed, he ventured out.

Lestrade was the first to see him and his face split into a welcoming grin. “Here you are. How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad,” John replied, glancing past him. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, openly glaring at Mycroft, who looked completely unperturbed at this attitude except for the fact that his hand had noticeably tightened around the handle of his umbrella. Lestrade was staying well out of the way, leaning against the wall beside the hall with an air of amused exasperation. And suddenly, turning around and heading back to bed was looking like the better option after all.

“John,” Mycroft said without looking away from Sherlock. “How nice to see you.”

“Err, you too.” John scratched the back of his head, hoping that it didn’t sound as insincere as he thought it did. Judging by Lestrade’s grin and Sherlock’s smirk, it did. He couldn’t help it, though. His last encounter hadn’t exactly put the man in a favourable light. 

Fortunately, Lestrade took pity on him. “I actually came hoping to get your statement. Do you feel up to it? We could go talk in the kitchen while those two glare at each other.”

John nodded, relieved for the chance to bow out gracefully, and stepped into the room. Mrs Hudson must have been up to see them because there was a tea tray on the table and the pot was still about half full. He poured himself a cup and added a touch of milk as he sat down, automatically adjusting the chair so that he could see Sherlock with no problem. As he took a sip of tea, he noticed that Lestrade was watching him with an odd look. He raised an eyebrow in query. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just…” Lestrade set his notebook down on the table and sighed. “What’s it like, John?”

After the discussion with Sherlock John thought he knew what Lestrade was really asking, and he didn’t bother to beat around the bush. “I’m not sure I’m really the one to ask,” he said carefully. “I mean, I’m pretty new to this whole wolf thing. And Sherlock and I aren’t mated yet.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still deluding yourself,” said Lestrade flatly. “John, I’ve never seen Sherlock act this way towards an omega. Or to… well, anyone, really. I always thought he would be the sort of man who would stay alone permanently, but… You should’ve seen him when you went missing. He was going crazy. He’s protective and possessive and honestly, he acts just like Mycroft does when I’m in danger.” He paused and then added a little more gently, “I think it might be time to accept the fact that you and Sherlock are going to mate.”

“Tell that to him,” John said, gesturing to the living room with his cup. “He hasn’t told me anything about it. I had to find out why I was starting to act more submissive to him from bloody Hope.” It still irked him that Sherlock had been so deliberately quiet on a lot of important topics. They were going to be having a long chat about that. But it struck him for the first time that maybe he had the perfect source of information sitting in front of him, apparently sympathetic to his cause. “What does it mean? To be mated.”

“It’s forever. You’ll never want another lover,” Lestrade replied. “It’s basically marriage to them, only permanent. I’m not, you know, but I’ve heard a lot about it in the past few years. During the mating his scent will imprint on you and then… that’s it.” He shrugged. “Mycroft told me once that it means becoming a lot less interesting to other wolves because they’ll be able to tell you’ve been claimed. He also said that even normal humans tend to subconsciously notice. And vice versa, of course. But I’m not sure if he was telling the truth or not. He’s been trying to get me to let him turn me for a while now.”

“You don’t want him to?” John asked, curious.

“I’d be an omega and I didn’t… well.” He cleared his throat, looking awkward. “I’d heard… of other omegas who …”

“Rolled over and did whatever their alpha wanted?” John filled in wryly, remembering Lucy and how she had acted towards Drebber. He couldn’t imagine behaving that way around Sherlock. The man could be a complete git as it was; there was no need to make it even worse. Sherlock needed someone who wasn’t afraid to stand up to him.

Lestrade nodded. “But then I met you and saw how you were around Sherlock and I’m thinking about it.”

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence as John finished his tea. He would have liked to have asked more questions - would the mating change anything between him and Sherlock? Would he still have heats? - but he didn’t think Lestrade would know the answers. Finally, he said, “What’s the pack?”

“The Pack?” Lestrade’s eyes widened. “Where did you hear that?”

“That woman who showed up first on the scene - Anthea, was it?” John poured himself more tea. “She said Mycroft had the Pack out looking for me.”

“Wolves run in packs. Werewolves are no different,” said Lestrade. “Mycroft is the unofficial head of the Pack in London. He’ll tell you, of course, that he only holds a minor position but that’s a lie.” He smirked a little. “And as his little brother that means Sherlock is fairly high up, too, not that you’d ever know it. He does his best to stay as far away from that sort of thing as possible.”

“The lone wolf,” John said softly, looking down at his tea. He wondered if there was even a place for him.


	33. Chapter 33

After John had finished giving his statement - which he didn’t think was going to be very helpful seeing as how he’d been drugged for the majority of what had gone on and his memories were therefore questionable at best - Lestrade dragged Mycroft away, leaving him and Sherlock alone. John didn’t go out to the living room, though. He remained in the kitchen, rinsing out and then washing the cups that they’d been using, ostensibly so that Mrs Hudson didn’t have to do it but really so that he’d have a minute to think before he had to face Sherlock.

Mating, bonding, whatever you wanted to call it, it was all still a mystery to John. The habits of werewolves were certainly not taught in school and it had never been something he’d thought to ask the few that he had met over the years. He had the bizarre thought that he could always call Ella up and ask her and had to tamp down on the somewhat hysterical laughter that threatened to break free at the idea. She’d warned him about finding an alpha, hadn’t she? Said that there was the possibility that one would be drawn to him because of his heats. Was that all there was between him and Sherlock? Just… good sex?

Not that the idea of good sex was unappealing, of course, but John wanted more than that. Like many of his fellow soldiers he’d harboured the quintessential dream of the beautiful wife and loving children, a practice out in the country and a large home to match. He’d known that dream had ended the day he got bit by a wolf, but he hadn’t been expecting for _this_ to happen. He didn’t know if Sherlock wanted him around, didn’t know if Sherlock was even amenable to the idea of mating or if John was getting carried away thanks to the opinions of other people. After all, he and Sherlock had only met about a month ago. They hadn’t even gone through their second full moon yet.

He sighed and rubbed a bit harder at one of the cups he was holding, focusing all of his attention on getting a particularly grimy spot clean, and then rinsed it off. He started to turn, intending to grab the drying cloth, and jumped when he came face to face with Sherlock. The wet cup slipped from his hands. Sherlock grabbed it before it could fall very far, an amused smirk quirking at his lips. John narrowed his eyes slightly and tossed the drying cloth in his face as he slipped by, enjoying the sound of Sherlock’s surprised sputter.

“What did Mycroft want?” he asked, figuring that it would be a relatively safe topic to start with. 

“To be annoying.” Sherlock set the cup down on the side of the sink and dropped the cloth over it. “But for once his real motive in coming here was not to annoy me. He wanted Lestrade to speak to you.” He wrinkled his nose, looking a bit green around the edges. “I suspect that tonight might be _the night_.”

“Oh. Oh, really?” John thought back to Lestrade’s somewhat nervous questions as they were finishing up the statement. If that was true then John really hadn’t been much help. He’d prefaced every answer with a comment about how he couldn’t really say for certain because he and Sherlock weren’t mated. No wonder Lestrade had ended up leaving so quickly. 

“Yes and I’m going to delete that knowledge from my brain so don’t ever bring it up again.” He swept over to the sofa and sprawled out, looking decadent in the thin light coming in the window. John watched him for a moment, amused, before he started to sit down in his own chair. Sherlock bolted up and grabbed his arm, pulling him back up so roughly that John stumbled against him. “Hey, what - ”

“Mycroft was sitting there,” Sherlock hissed, eyes flashing with just a hint of gold. John, noticing this, swallowed hard and went still. Their bodies were pressed closely together and the urge to tilt his head slightly and bare his throat to Sherlock was nearly overwhelming. He fought against it, instead looking up at the man, cursing his lack of height not for the first time as Sherlock said very softly, “You can’t get pregnant, John. I had you tested while you were at the hospital and you lack the necessary equipment.”

It took John almost a full minute to wrap his mind around that statement, and only then did he remember Sherlock saying that he didn’t trust the Centre’s tests. It also reminded him about that green pill. “That’s a relief,” he said, relieved to hear his voice coming out steadier than he’d expected. He decided to let the whole testing while he’d been unconscious thing go for the time being. “So I… won’t need that pill anymore.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow before catching on. “Oh, no, you won’t. Surprisingly that’s all it was, birth control. I’d half expected Mycroft to…” He trailed off and shook his head, his fingers rubbing lazy circles on John’s arm. “John.”

“Yes?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock craned his head down and kissed him. John opened up to the kiss easily, making a soft sound of appreciation in his throat. This close, all he could smell was Sherlock and it was intoxicating, wiping away all of his doubts. He pressed a little bit closer, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s slender waist and trailing his hands up the long spine. Sherlock shivered and deepened the kiss, pressing John’s mouth open with his tongue, sucking hard on his bottom lip and making John’s knees feel like water. His hands were gripping John’s hips so hard that John knew he’d have bruises later but he didn’t care.

“Sherlock,” he gasped, not really sure what he wanted to say.

“John.” There was a possessive quality to Sherlock’s voice that hadn’t been there before. His eyes were burning almost entirely gold. “I’m tired of having other alphas believing that they can touch you. Having Mycroft’s scent on you makes me sick. I want you to be mine and _only_ mine.”

“But…” It was hard to think about all of his previous doubts when they were nestled so closely together. “Sherlock, you… you used to live alone. You hated everyone. Lestrade told me that he thought you would never mate. How do you know this just isn’t because of my heat?” Hard as it was, he stepped back, putting a modicum of space between them. Not much but it helped a little. “How do you know you won’t regret this someday?”

“Because you’re different,” Sherlock replied. “You don’t annoy me and your scent is actually pleasing. Most scents give me a headache. They’re unbearable to be around all the time. But you… That’s what initially caught my attention, not the fact that you were in heat.” His hand left John’s hip and rose to his neck, rubbing idly at the side of his throat, just over his collarbone. John shivered. “We work well together. I enjoy having an assistant I can trust and you have something to make you feel alive. There’s no need to worry about you getting pregnant and since your heats only occur every three months we’ll make do. John, say yes. Let me mate with you.”

That was something John hadn’t ever thought he’d hear Sherlock say. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy. Every instinct in his body demanded that he say yes. He didn’t think the mating would change anything between them; life would continue on with Sherlock being a madman who put them in danger on a regular basis and John striving to keep them both from being killed. The only difference would be that he’d have a place to belong, someone who wanted and needed him as much as John wanted and needed them. And really, when put like that, how could he have any other answer?

He opened his eyes and smiled. “Yes.”


	34. Chapter 34

Long fingers gripped the collar of John’s dressing gown and pulled him into a heated kiss, one that was so hard and passionate that John felt as though Sherlock was trying to climb right into him and merge them together. He gave as good as he got, tangling his fingers into those curls and savouring the taste of Sherlock. He moaned when Sherlock’s hands wandered down to his arse and squeezed tightly, kneading the supple flesh with obvious intent. He was just wondering how he was going to get their clothes off without breaking the kiss when Sherlock pulled back.

"Shower," he said, which wasn't at all what John had been expecting in response to his affirmation. He blinked and allowed Sherlock to spin him around. His presence remained warm and solid against John’s back as he steered John down the hall and into their bathroom. He shut the door behind them and put his hands on the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them slowly. John swallowed hard, his fingers twitching with the desire to help, but something about Sherlock's expression told him that it wouldn't be appreciated; Sherlock seemed to want him to watch for the time being. Still, it was a little like torture to watch all that pale flesh being revealed without doing something about it.

"Not that it matters because I’m not about to protest, but why are we showering?" he asked, figuring he should ask before Sherlock took his trousers and pants off and derailed John's mind entirely.

"Part of the bonding means that my scent will imprint on you," Sherlock murmured. "The same thing will happen to me. It causes problems if the natural has been covered up by... other things." His jaw tightened slightly and John recalled how anxious he'd been after Mycroft was in the flat last time. As far as John could tell at that moment he didn't smell like Mycroft, but the anxious look in Sherlock's eyes was enough to make him give in. Besides, it wasn't like he was going to say no to a shower with his lover.

He dropped the dressing gown he'd wound around his body, feeling a flash of satisfied pleasure at the way that Sherlock's hands stilled. He moved past and deliberately bent over, showing off his (still nicely toned in spite of the fact that he'd spent a while in the hospital) arse as he turned the water on. A moment later he heard a deep groan and then cool hands were cupping his cheeks and pressing them apart so that a thumb could wander in between. John gasped out loud at the touch on his entrance and grabbed at the rim of the tub in order to stay standing. He supposed that he should've known better than to present Sherlock with that kind of opportunity but as the thumb moved, gently relaxing the muscle and coaxing it to open up a little, he couldn't remember why.

"Sherlock," he choked out. "If you don't... Christ, if you don't stop we're not going to get to shower after all."

Sherlock chuckled and stopped the movement of his thumb, though he didn't move away. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the base of John's spine and the feel of his warm breath there made John shiver. His legs felt curiously weak as he straightened up and turned around. "Shower?" he said, sounding a little more dazed than he would have liked. He stepped backwards, putting his leg over the side, and Sherlock followed.

There wasn't really enough room for the both of them but they managed. Sherlock picked up a container of soap that John had never seen before and squeezed some into his hands, rubbing it briskly. "Mycroft brought it," he said, reaching out and sliding his hands down John's arm. He left behind a trail of soap. "It's specially formulated to have absolutely no scent whatsoever and leaves no residue behind. Stay still, John," he commanded when John tried to help. John huffed out a breath but went still, though that was easier said than done when Sherlock knelt before him to clean his lower half. The man was being extremely thorough, running his fingers over John's cock and balls, even along his perineum. Every touch made John bite his lip harder. 

Finally Sherlock left off, moving down his legs, even paying attention to his feet after squeezing more soap into his hands. He directed John to turn and he did, not realizing the potential until he felt a soapy finger gliding between his thighs and up, pressing against him again. This time it slid in easily, aided by the slipperiness of the soap, and John gasped, leaning heavily against the wall. He was really beginning to develop an appreciation for having Sherlock's fingers or cock buried inside of him. There was just something about being filled by the man that was an unbelievable turn on. His cock was fully hard and he ached to touch it, but part of the fun was the anticipation of the moment. He clenched his hands into fists and closed his eyes, moaning softly as Sherlock worked his finger in and out.

"I'm pretty sure there's no one's scent in there but your own," he said breathlessly.

"Just checking," Sherlock replied, all innocence. He slipped his finger out and rose, moving up John's back to his shoulders and neck. "Alright, under the water."

John felt surprisingly refreshed after he’d been rinsed off and he wondered if there was more to the soap than Sherlock had let on. He picked up the container and squeezed some out onto his hands. It felt surprisingly warm in his hands and lathered easily. "Your turn now."

He’d never had the chance to fully appreciate Sherlock before. The man was all long lines of pale flesh over wiry muscles that spoke of a hidden strength. John took his time, sliding his hands over Sherlock’s chest and arms, highly conscious of the eyes that were watching and cataloguing his every move. He breathed out shakily and knelt with only a slight wince for the twinge in his thigh, running his hands down Sherlock’s legs. He couldn’t resist leaning forward and placing a quick kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s cock and the resulting low growl it earned made him smirk as he ducked his head to wash Sherlock’s feet.

“Turn,” he said softly, sitting back on his heels as Sherlock obeyed. His mouth went dry at being faced with Sherlock’s arse, which was surprisingly plump considering how lanky he was. John’s hands went to it immediately, kneading and exploring, and Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, though he didn’t tell John to stop. Alpha, John thought, and wondered how far he would be able to go before Sherlock stopped him. It was something to explore on another day. 

“John,” Sherlock said and his voice was deep and demanding. He turned then, lifting and pushing John back against the wall, and kissed him. The water poured down over the two of them and between that and the kiss John couldn’t breathe but he knew, he was absolutely certain that there was nowhere else he would have rather been.


	35. Chapter 35

They stumbled out of the shower together, sending water everywhere. John was so hard that it ached and he couldn’t seem to stop touching Sherlock, running his hands over every inch of the man’s tantalizing body that he could reach. He knew he was testing Sherlock’s level of control and he loved it, the thought that he was the only person in the world who could make Sherlock Holmes put the needs of his body ahead of his mind was enough to make him even harder. He leaned up, pressing his mouth to the side of Sherlock’s neck and sucking hard. He felt more than heard Sherlock’s resulting groan and a moment later his legs were swept out from underneath him.

“Sherlock! Put me down!” he commanded, flushing. 

“This way is much faster,” Sherlock replied simply, a look in his eyes that could only be described as mischievous. He carried John out of the bathroom, disregarding the towels entirely, and down the hall to the bedroom. John huffed as he was unceremoniously dropped in the middle of the bed, but before he could complain too much he had over six feet of alpha stretched out over his body, greedily placing possessive kisses over the worst of the scar tissue on his shoulder. 

“God you are such a prat,” John muttered affectionately, tangling his fingers into those dark curls. The feel of Sherlock’s weight on his body, bruised and aching though it may have been, actually felt good. It was a tangible reminder that Sherlock was here with him. He took in as deep a breath as he could and sighed, running the fingers of his free hand down Sherlock’s spine. He wasn’t expecting Sherlock to stiffen and wince. Instantly John froze, the haze of lust clearing a little. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said but John wasn’t going to accept that at face value. He squirmed out from underneath Sherlock, ignoring the man’s mutter of annoyance, and sat up, squinting down at Sherlock’s back. Unnoticed before, there was a patchwork of dark bruising across Sherlock’s lower back in the rough shape of a footprint. John touched the area gently, instinctively feeling for anything that might have been broken. Logically Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to pick him up if he’d broken a rib but John had the feeling that Sherlock could ignore any amount of pain when it came to something he was truly interested in, be it a case or mating.

“These bruises are only a couple of days old,” he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock sighed in frustration and rolled over, grabbing John’s wrists and yanking him down. “While I was searching for you I was attacked,” he said impatiently, followed by a rumbling growl of approval when John relaxed against him. “They were idiots, naturally, and I got rid of them without too much trouble _or_ injury. That’s why I was so late in getting to you.”

Through the haze that was swiftly re-developing, John remembered Sherlock telling him that there was nothing he needed to worry about ‘right now’. He’d dropped the matter at the time and he knew that this wasn’t the time to bring it up, either. Still, he wasn’t going to let it go forever. “We’re going to have a talk about this after we’re done,” he grumbled.

“Duly noted,” Sherlock said with a faint smirk, squirming his way down John’s body, making sure that every inch of their skin slid together on the way, helped by the remaining dampness from the shower. John felt cool breath against his cock a split second before searing wet heat enveloped him. 

“Sherlock!” he groaned, throwing his head back against the pillows. It had been a long time since anyone had gone down on him but he didn’t think it had ever been done with so much _relish_. And it seemed that, like in everything else that he put his mind to, Sherlock was a master at this: his tongue, teeth and hands were combining to send John to the brink ridiculously fast. He reached down and tangled a hand into Sherlock’s hair again, fighting to get enough air to tell the man that he didn’t want it to be over so soon. All that came out was a pitiful little wheezing whine. 

Fortunately Sherlock seemed to understand regardless. He pulled back with one last slow lick to the head, enjoying the soft sound of protest he received. He slipped one of his hands beneath the curve of John’s bottom and pushed a finger between, brushing it tantalizingly over his entrance. “John,” he purred, dragging the word out until it sounded obscene. “Are you ready?”

“Fuck yes,” John said fervently. His whole body was burning with desire and he could feel that ache starting, the one that had plagued him so badly during his heat: the need to be filled. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been then but it was definitely there and demanding. He shuddered when Sherlock’s finger pressed a little harder, allowing just the tip to slide in. Dry as he was it shouldn’t have felt good, but that didn’t stop him from wanting more and he impatiently tried to thrust down with his hips.

Sherlock chuckled, a dark sound, and reached out for the bedside table. He took out a new package of lube and popped it open, squeezing some out onto his hands. The first brush of it was cold and John arched unconsciously until Sherlock’s other hand settled on his hip, squeezing patiently. ”I like this,” he murmured, sitting up on his heels so that he could watch John’s face. “I like taking you apart with my fingers.”

John had a response to that, he really did, but it was driven from his mind at the first slide of one long finger into his body. It felt obscenely good and he closed his eyes, tilting his hips in an effort to draw Sherlock in deeper, biting at his lip to keep from crying out. Sherlock kissed his hip and obeyed, pushing his finger in as deep as it could go, until the rest of his hand was splayed against John’s skin. He rotated his hand and gently began rubbing his thumb up and down John’s perineum. John squirmed at the sensation that was bordering on almost _too good_ , a slow relentless heat that was gradually turning his brain to pure mush.

“God,” he choked out, utterly breathless at the intrusion of a second finger. He suspected that Sherlock was deliberately avoiding his prostate and perhaps that was a good thing: he was on the edge, ready to fall over at the slightest provocation. “Come on, Sherlock, get up here and fuck me.”

After one last kiss to the tip of John’s cock Sherlock crawled back up so that they were face to face, eyes glittering when John automatically tipped his head back, presenting his neck. He kept his fingers inside of John as he leaned down and kissed John’s neck, dragging his teeth across the skin in a promise of things to come.


	36. Chapter 36

“Are you ready?”

It took nearly a full minute for John’s mind to process the question. Sherlock was driving him mad. He’d worked a full four fingers into John and was teasing his prostate with light, fluttering moves while his thumb rubbed over John’s perineum, not nearly enough to make him come, just working him into a frenzy. His cock was throbbing with the desire to be touched but every time he tried to reach down Sherlock would push his hand away. He felt like he was burning from the inside out, slick and wet and ready, and if Sherlock didn’t do something about it soon John was pretty sure he was going to combust or possibly melt, whichever would give him more relief.

“Sherlock,” he said, or tried to say, there was a distinct possibility that it came out something more like “Shh’loooh” as Sherlock twisted his hand and rubbed his index finger firmly across that spot at the same time. John whimpered as those clever fingers were then pulled out of his body, leaving him feeling hideously open and empty, aching to be filled. 

“Shh,” Sherlock murmured, stroking his belly in a gesture that was clearly meant to be soothing, although it didn’t work out that way. All John could smell was Sherlock, that rich scent that seemed to have been ingrained on his senses, and all he could see was Sherlock, the dark hair and flashing eyes, and all he could feel was Sherlock, his hands and tongue and finally, _finally_ , the feel of a hard cock nudging into place against his entrance.

A low desperate whine escaped him and he tried to press down but Sherlock stopped him, gripping John’s hips to keep him from impaling himself. He began to press forward with a tenderness that was surprising in the rush of the moment, evidently possessing enough of a mind to remember that John wasn’t in heat and that, at least at first, Sherlock would have to be a little gentler. John had no idea how the man could still be in control but he was gratified to see it beginning to crumble as Sherlock pushed inside inch by sweet inch.

John went quiet out of necessity, simply because his lungs couldn’t get enough air to support him breathing and speaking at the same time. His hands flailed for something to hold onto and finally came to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises, and yet he couldn’t make himself let go. This was the first time that Sherlock had fucked him since his heat and it was so much more intense than John remembered. When his mind wasn’t consumed with the needy, devouring fire of heat he was free to appreciate and feel every ridge and vein on Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock breathed out shakily as he slid in the last few inches. John could see that his eyes were speckled with gold and he arched his back in response, unconsciously tilting his head to reveal the side of his throat in a movement that felt completely right even though it made the muscles of his neck ache. Having this, being perfectly filled, made him want to stay exactly where he was for the rest of his life. That inside ache was gone, like puzzles slotting neatly into place, and Sherlock’s hands were still tight on his hips, letting John know who belonged to, and god he needed more. 

“I’m not going to break,” he said after a moment had passed, allowing them both to get used to the feeling. He lifted his legs and slipped them around Sherlock’s waist, knowing that this would be fast and rough and _good_. One day he’d like to make slow love with Sherlock, to learn every inch of the man’s body, to bring him to the edge again and again until Sherlock pinned him down and took what he wanted, but that day was not now. “Come on. I want this, Sherlock. I want you to fuck me until everyone knows that I’m yours.”

It was the right thing to say. Sherlock growled, a sound not unlike the rough sounds he made as a wolf, and pulled back, sliding almost all the way out. Before John even had the chance to feel empty Sherlock snapped his hips and was back in, the head of his cock nudging just right and pulling a helpless moan from John’s chest. Like that was the permission Sherlock had been waiting for he began fucking John in earnest with a series of sharp, forceful thrusts, one hand braced against the bed, the other roaming freely over John’s body, tugging at nipples, rubbing his cock, stroking his belly.

“Oh god, Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock you are so amazing, so beautiful, god keeping doing that, so good.” Distantly John heard himself babbling but he couldn’t muster up the control necessary to stop. His body almost felt as though it was misfiring, the jolts of pleasure so strong that they were bordering on painful. He gasped for breath, feeling his orgasm lingering just out of reach, a tantalizing thrum of sensation that was going to be stronger than anything else he’d experienced so far.

“John,” Sherlock gasped. His curls were damp with sweat, face flushed and gleaming, as he shifted and lowered his weight, trapping John’s throbbing cock between their bellies. The additional friction made John moan louder and he exposed his neck again at just the right angle for Sherlock to press his face into, his tongue sweeping over the column of flesh he’d been presented with. Like this, Sherlock could only rotate his hips but it was enough. He turned his head and hissed, “Now, John. Come _now_.”

There was an unexpected pain in the side of his throat, near the back, as Sherlock’s teeth sank deeply into his flesh. The proximity of their position forced John’s nose into Sherlock’s throat. He inhaled and was flooded with more of that scent at the same time that the warmth of Sherlock’s orgasm hit his lower belly and that was enough to push him over the edge. John came so hard that he couldn’t even cry out, the words lodging somewhere in his chest as his body shook from the force of it. Sherlock’s scent was like a warm shroud around him and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he’d never be rid of it, that he would remember this scent for the rest of his life.

Sherlock’s teeth released him slowly with another, duller jolt of pain. John could feel something cold on his neck and knew he was bleeding, but before he could do anything Sherlock began licking at the wound and surprisingly it did help. He wanted to make a comment about infection but even doing that seemed like it would take too much effort. The weight on top of him and inside of him was pleasant, not constricting or confining at all, and he could feel a heavy lassitude stealing over him, as though this joining had taken every bit of energy that he possessed. His eyes fluttered shut and he fell asleep to the feel of Sherlock’s tongue soothing the wound.


	37. Chapter 37

The next thing John knew it was dark, the sun having long since set, and there was a rough tongue, longer and wider, still licking at him, except now it had moved to his cheek and the tip of his ear, leaving behind a warm, damp feeling that felt oddly pleasurable in a non-sexual way. He made a low sound of approval, or tried, and heard it come out as a roughly shaped growl instead. His eyes popped open and he spotted a dark brown wolf with slightly curly fur leaning over him, amusement glittering in eyes that were oddly familiar - _Sherlock_ \- and he realized that he’d completely forgotten about the full moon that night.

Now that John was awake, Sherlock stood up and stretched, his muscles rippling under the glossy dark coat. He leapt down off of the bed and padded out into the hall. John watched him go and felt an odd tugging in his chest. He realized that he wanted nothing more than to follow Sherlock, regardless of where he was going. He stood cautiously with far less grace, getting reacquainted with how this body moved. It was as disorienting as ever to be on four legs and have a tail. He nearly stumbled jumping down, accidentally overcompensating for the way his shoulder forced him to limp, and was glad that Sherlock had already left the room because he’d have probably never heard the end of it otherwise.

He padded out to the kitchen and saw that Sherlock had sprawled across the couch in as close an approximation to his human form that he could get while Mrs Hudson puttered around their kitchen, putting groceries away. All of the smells in the flat, now much stronger, surrounded him and he took a moment to sort them out. There was Sherlock, a scent that was now a part of John’s core, and himself, and Mrs Hudson, and then under that Mycroft and Lestrade and even something bitter he recognized as Donovan and Anderson, though admittedly their scents were old and fading. 

“Good evening love,” Mrs Hudson said cheerfully as she turned around, seemingly unperturbed by the sight of two wolves in the flat. It was refreshing to find a human woman who didn’t panic at the sight of them, John thought. He watched as she closed the refridgerator and approached, noticing that she left a good two feet of distance between them when Sherlock’s head snapped up. “Are you hungry?”

John considered the question. He should have been - he hadn’t eaten much for the past few days and after the bout of sex they’d had the night before he ought to be starved - but he wasn’t. In fact his stomach felt vaguely unsettled, not quite at the point of being ill but the threat was definitely there. He realized that what he really wanted to do was escape the flat. All of his full moons, save for when he’d been in heat and locked in the flat with Sherlock, had been spent out doors. There was something very soothing about the cold night air against his fur. He shook his head and then turned towards the door, balancing his weight on his good paw and scratching at the door with the other.

“Oh you’d rather go out? It’s a lovely night for a walk, you know. Clear as anything.” She opened the door and allowed him to step out first, holding back a beat for the black blur that raced off of the sofa and darted out the door after John. An indulgent smile on her face, she clucked her tongue and started down the stairs. “Really, Sherlock, you don’t need to be in such a rush. One of these days you’re going to trip yourself right down these stairs and I’m not taking you to a vet when it happens.”

Sherlock snorted and pressed his head against John’s side. It was an entirely possessive gesture, rubbing even more of his scent onto John’s fur, and John would have rolled his eyes if he could have. Did Sherlock really think he was doing to leave the flat without him? Idiot. He flipped his tail across one of Sherlock’s ears and was rewarded with what could only be described as a look of annoyance. John grinned at him, baring his teeth, and launched himself out the door the second Mrs Hudson had opened it. He didn’t need to look back to know that Sherlock was right behind him.

It had never been like this before. Full moons were usually spent limping around, bemoaning the fact that this had ever happened to him and wondering why he hadn’t taken more precaution during that last full moon he’d spent in Afghanistan. Some of the teachers at the Centre had tried to draw him out but John had never been interested, had never seen the point of actively participating in something he wanted no part of. Generally he watched the clock or tried to fall asleep, waiting for that precious moment when the sun would rise and his humanity would be restored.

This, though. It was like being a child again. Sherlock’s paws pattered against the pavement just behind him, not fast enough to catch up but easily keeping John in his sight. For once John’s shoulder wasn’t aching and he knew that even with his limp he was running faster than he ever had before. He tossed his head back and even though it had always seemed utterly cliché for a werewolf to be howling at the moon he found himself wanting to do just that, might have even done that had Sherlock not come up behind him and pounced, throwing his full weight against John and sending them both down in a heap.

John twisted and kicked and snarled out a laugh, too breathless to do anything else. He caught a glimpse of amusement in those pale eyes and then Sherlock, the heavy git, stood up and gave a shake of his fur in much the same way he would have pulled up his coat collar. He turned his head and whuffed at John, then set off at a slow pace. Curious, John got up. Sherlock was so dark that he blended in with the shadows but like this John’s nose allowed him to latch onto that familiar scent, the one that called to and invited him. Trustingly, he followed.


	38. Chapter 38

John wasn’t sure what he was expecting. A romp through downtown London, possibly, or maybe even a visit to a crime scene - god only knew when it came to Sherlock; he wouldn’t have put it past the man to have a healthy amount of disdain for the human officers of the Yard and their ability to solve crimes during nights of the full moon, Lestrade excluded (sometimes). It turned out, however, that Sherlock disliked other wolves every bit as much as he disliked other people. He avoided the main streets, sticking to alleys and shadows as he led the way, the pace fast enough to dissuade anyone who might have been trying to follow but not so quick that John couldn’t keep up.

Their target, he realized, was a large building in central London made up of posh flats, the sort of place that he wouldn't have ever imagined stepping inside as a human, much less strolling inside as a wolf. The doorman must have recognized Sherlock because he practically fell all over himself to open the door and step aside. Sherlock stalked past without so much as a glance in his direction; John trailed behind and tried to convey gratefulness with his eyes, though he doubted it did much good considering that the man was deliberately avoiding looking at the two of them, all but shielding his face as he stared hard at the far wall, hand trembling faintly on the handle. Ridiculous, really, but some humans couldn’t tolerate them.

John voiced an inquiring yelp as he watched Sherlock head straight for the lift. Sherlock huffed and tossed his head in response, balancing easily on his hind legs as he leaned up and hit one of the buttons with his front paw. The lift’s lights lit up and, one soft _ding_ later, the doors swished open soundlessly. It was the height of bizarre to be riding a lift when you were a wolf and if John had been able to he would've been giggling madly. As it was, his tail wagged slowly and he could see in the reflected mirrored walls that Sherlock was watching him with an amused fondness. Together the two of them looked like quite a pair, blond and dark, one stocky and the other tall and slender.

The lift rose to a gradual halt and the doors opened: John hung back, allowing Sherlock to pad out first. Once again he seemed to know exactly where he was going, trotting down the hall with a determined gait. But this time as John followed he realized that he recognized the faint scent in the air. He'd only smelt it once or twice, but it was familiar in a way that tugged at something deep inside of him. The most basic particles were the same as the wolf that was walking not a foot in front of him. Mycroft. John stopped, suddenly uncertain, remembering the last time that he and Mycroft had been alone in a room together. The encounter had not gone well. He knew now that Mycroft had been trying to incite jealousy in Sherlock and granted it had worked but John wasn't in the mood for those sorts of games. He didn't understand why they were here instead of outside in the moon and the wind and the cool, quiet darkness that called to him. A low whine worked its way out of his throat.

Instantly Sherlock was there, a soothing rumble coming from deep within his chest as he rubbed his cheek against the top of John’s head in a gesture of comfort. It brought him close to John, close enough for that wonderful scent to wash over him and block out anything else, and it was every bit as calming as John remembered. He didn't want to be here but he was willing to trust that Sherlock had a reason for it, he realized, looking up at the black wolf. Sherlock was watching him with intelligently pale eyes, obviously waiting for John to come to his decision, and he knew in a jolt of understanding that if he really, truly wanted to leave Sherlock would do it; they would turn around that instant and leave the flat.

Perhaps that was why he exhaled slowly and jerked his head in a nod.

There was a glimmer of approval in those eyes as Sherlock turned and led the way past another door. This time when he stopped he seemed to be waiting for something - no, he was _examining_ the door. John watched in increasing befuddlement, wondering if Sherlock had finally lost his mind, especially when Sherlock went up on his hind paws again and placed his front paws on the door. He struck the wood twice with his left paw, once with his right, then dropped to the ground and scratched near the bottom left. Much to John's amazement the door cracked open, and it dawned on him that Sherlock had just entered some sort of pass code to be granted entrance.

It was official. He definitely knew where they were now if only because there was only one other man who would do something like that. So he wasn't surprised when he entered the flat and saw that there was indeed another wolf waiting for them. This one was larger than both Sherlock and John, not quite as tall as Sherlock but husky. The fur was a deep auburn colour that was worn shaggy but perfectly straight, the eyes gray and every bit as intelligent and all-seeing as Sherlock. Mycroft nodded to them both and there was a certain amount of elegance even in just that miniscule movement. It made John feel graceless and sloppy as he came to a stop and sat down beside Sherlock.

Not for the first time he wished he had the ability to speak, if only so that he could ask Sherlock what the hell they were doing there. It didn’t help that Sherlock and Mycroft appeared to be having a private conversation with their eyes alone. At length Sherlock snorted and gave another one of those great shakes and Mycroft stood up, apparently having won some sort of argument. John looked between them, confused, but before he had the chance to wonder too much another scent reached his nose, this one equally familiar but a little bit different, and he turned his head quickly, suddenly aware of what Sherlock and Mycroft had been arguing about.

Standing in the entrance of the room, all sleek silver fur and warm brown eyes and hidden power in tightly coiled muscles, was Gregory Lestrade.


	39. Chapter 39

So Mycroft and Lestrade had mated after all, John thought, watching the way the two wolves looked at each other with undisguised affection, far more obvious now then it ever would be while they were human. Lestrade stood up and walked over to Mycroft carefully, moving in a way that John was intensely familiar with: he moved with an awkward gait, the walk of someone unused to being on four paws and possessing a tail. He had to admit, though, that Lestrade was a good deal more graceful than John had been the first night he was a wolf. He distinctly remembered falling over more than a few times and he’d woken up the next morning with a bruised nose for his trouble.

Lestrade stopped when he was beside Mycroft and for the first time John caught a fresh burst of his scent. It was more potent, of course, and different because he was a wolf, but there was something else of note about it that at first John couldn’t figure out. He cocked his head curiously and only understood when Sherlock nudged him. The underlying, base particles of Sherlock’s scent spoke of dominance, a desire to own and possess, and Mycroft’s was similar: the mark of an alpha. Lestrade, on the other hand, was missing that, and John suspected his own scent would be the same. He wondered if that was, when you came right down to it, the most fundamental difference between alphas and omegas.

Sherlock nudged him again and John glanced at him. Part of him was expecting that, now that Sherlock had received confirmation of the fact that Mycroft and Lestrade had mated, they would leave. He was startled when Sherlock instead leapt up onto the couch and curled up, leaving just enough space for John to join him. John hesitated for a moment, but Mycroft was watching them calmly and offered no resistance to his brother’s actions and Lestrade just yawned, so he climbed up beside Sherlock and slotted himself in beside the larger wolf, feeling dwarfed. The heat from Sherlock’s body was soothing and he realized that he was tired from their chase.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. But when he woke up again he was human and the sun was shining in through the windows. There was a blanket over his naked body. He stayed where he was for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. That had easily been the best full moon he had ever spent. He hadn’t known that they could be like that. Even though he and Sherlock hadn’t done much more than come for a visit (and wasn’t that a surprise in itself), for the first time since being sent home he’d actually been _happy_ that he was bitten. And he could honestly say that he had never believed he would reach this point.

Shaking his head lightly, he sat up, wincing at the customary stiffness that always lingered from the change. Lestrade was curled up on the other sofa, back to the room, also covered by just a thin blanket. He was still sleeping, though. John stood up, stretched carefully, and wrapped the blanket more securely around him. He started into the kitchen to find something that would appease his growling stomach but paused when he realized that Mycroft was seated at the table, flipping through a journal. 

“Good morning, John,” said Mycroft, seemingly unperturbed by the sight of his brother’s mate dressed only in a blanket.

“Um, good morning,” John replied. 

“Sherlock has gone to take a shower. He’s just down the hall to the right,” Mycroft told him as though John couldn’t figure that out from the fading scent trails. He closed the journal and glanced up, a small smile curling his lips. For Mycroft, that was practically a grin, and John stared at him, unsettled. 

“Is Lestrade okay?” he asked finally.

“Yes. I’m sure that you remember the first change can be difficult. It didn’t take long for him, he was asleep for a very short time last night, but that can naturally be very hard on the body. He will probably be fatigued for the next few days and ravenous when he wakes up.” Mycroft studied him for a moment. “Forgive me, I forget that it has not been so long since you were in his position. You must be hungry as well. I’ll call for some food to be brought up.”

John was pretty sure Mycroft had never forgotten anything, but he was hungry enough that he didn’t want to argue. He nodded. “Thanks. That would be good. I’m going to go find Sherlock.” And hopefully some clothing. He started to turn away and paused when Mycroft spoke again.

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“I wanted to thank you.” There was something odd about the way that Mycroft was holding himself. He was _uncomfortable_ , John realized. “Gregory was… unsettled about the change. I believe that talking to you went a long way towards assuaging his fears.”

“I didn’t really do much, but you’re welcome,” John said awkwardly. He had the bizarre thought that Mycroft might try to do something to show his thanks and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around long enough to know what that might be. He retreated hastily down the hall before anything else could be said, following the sound of the shower. The door had been left partly open in invitation and he took it, slipping inside and closing it behind him. Sherlock’s figure was just barely visible, obscured behind the curtain, but he pushed it back when he heard the door shut. His dark curls were plastered to his face by water and his lips were quirked into a smile.

“Encountered Mycroft, did you?” he observed. “Hurry up. You probably stink of him now.”

Yet it didn’t bother him as much as it had before, John noted, obligingly dropping the blanket. He stepped forward and allowed Sherlock to pull him into the tub. “He was thanking me,” he said, ducking his head beneath the spray. 

Sherlock chuckled. “You should write it on the calendar. My brother rarely thanks anyone for anything and he does it sincerely even less.”

“Good. I hope it doesn’t happen again,” John muttered, admiring his lover’s slender form. 

“Don’t worry, it probably won’t.” Smoothly Sherlock backed him up against the wall, crowding close. He tangled a hand into the hair at the base of John’s neck, his thumb roughly rubbing against the bite mark. It should have hurt, and it did, but it felt good too, the sensation walking that thin line between pain and pleasure that turned into a heady mixture which went straight to his cock. John’s eyes fluttered shut and he shivered. 

“Sherlock…” 

“Mmm, John, you smell so good,” Sherlock replied, helping him to turn around so that he could bury his nose in John’s neck. He nipped gently at the skin, smiling at the way that John twitched beneath him. He slipped his hands around and began to pinch at his nipples. 

“Not… not here,” John protested, digging his hands into his sides when Sherlock bit lightly again. God, he’d never known that could be such a turn on. It was making his knees weak. His cock was hard and aching already and all he could think about was how, in spite of the meagre protest he’d put up, he wanted more.


	40. Chapter 40

When he breathed out slowly and then inhaled deeply, all that John could smell was Sherlock. It was like the water was only helping to spread his scent and it hung in the air, warm and hazy and surrounding him on all sides. His eyes fluttered shut and he rested his forehead against the cool ceramic tiles, shivering as Sherlock's hands trailed up and down his ribs, hips and thighs. Every inch of flesh on his body suddenly felt a hundred times more sensitive than normal and it wasn't helped at all with the way that Sherlock kept breathing hotly over the mark on his neck. Once in a while he would close his teeth gently around the flesh, pressing just hard enough to make a whimper rise in John's throat before he would release the mark and lap at it, his tongue sliding over every inch of John’s neck.

"S-Sherlock," he whispered, the word coming out as an unintentional moan. Waves of pleasure were radiating out from the bite mark, joining the hot coiling in his belly, and it was making his head swim. If Sherlock didn’t stop he was going to come before they even got started.

"You like that?" Sherlock murmured and John didn't have to look back to know that Sherlock was smirking. He stepped closer, using his body to keep John standing, and John relaxed back against him with a faint sound, relieved that he no longer had to try and make his weak knees support him. "I suppose I failed to mention that after a mating a bond mark becomes a fairly significant erogenous zone. But in this case I'm thinking you're willing to overlook my keeping you uninformed, aren't you?"

John's response was garbled into a sound not quite a groan when Sherlock bit down a little more firmly, worrying at the skin. His cock was painfully hard and trapped against the tiles and he wanted to rut against them but he couldn't, not with Sherlock pressed so firmly against him. He whined low in his throat and squirmed. "God, you're such a bloody tease," he gasped out. Yes, alright, this was one oversight he was going to forgive the man for as long as Sherlock did something and soon. He clenched his hands into fists and writhed, undulating as best he could against his partner's body. " _Please_ , Sherlock."

"John." Sherlock groaned, a rough, ragged sound as his hands seized John's hips and pulled him back, eliminating the small bit of space that had existed between them and grinding him against Sherlock's hot length. Both men moaned at the same time and the sound was surely loud enough to be heard outside but John didn't care, couldn't care. He just wanted to have Sherlock inside of him as soon as possible. Opening eyes he hadn't realized he had shut again, he looked around desperately for something that could be used as lubrication. His hand fell on a container of conditioner.

"Here, use this," he rasped, pushing the bottle hurriedly against Sherlock's arm.

For once Sherlock did as he was told, popping the cap off and squeezing a healthy amount of the slippery conditioner into his hands. He held John in place with one hand as he slicked up his cock with the other. This time, though, he didn't give John any time to prepare. He lined his cock up with John's entrance and pushed inside, thrusting past the initial resistance without hesitation. John arched his back with a soft cry of surprise, shocked by the burning line of pain mingled with pleasure that shot up his spine. It hurt, of course, but it also felt so good. He could feel the mark on his neck beginning to throb and that only added to the already heady mixture burning through his veins. He distantly heard himself whimpering.

"Shh," Sherlock whispered, wrapping one of his arms around John's chest to hold him in place. Slowly, he continued to push inside, focusing all of his attention on the way that John's body alternately relaxed and tensed, pausing when it was clearly too much and only moving again when John gave him a sign, however unconscious, that it was alright. By the time he was finally inside Sherlock was shaking with the effort it took to restrain himself from just grabbing John by the hips and fucking the omega until he couldn't walk straight.

"Just... a moment..." John hung his head and panted, knowing how hard this had to be for Sherlock but needing a couple of minutes to get used to the sensation of being filled again. They'd only fucked a couple of times and this was the first time without any preparation whatsoever. He was surprised by how much he was enjoying it. Tentatively he wiggled, testing to see how much movement would hurt, and sighed when the only thing he felt was a faint tingle of pleasure. Mmm, yes, he could get used to having Sherlock exactly where he was for the rest of their lives. He wondered what chance there was he would be able to convince the consulting detective to give up work in favour of fucking all day.

“Not likely,” Sherlock breathed, sounding far too amused for John’s liking, and he flushed when he realized he had been unintentionally speaking out loud. He chuckled, low and deep. “But if you continue to be so tempting I could be swayed more often.”

“Bastard,” muttered John and as though that was the permission Sherlock had been waiting for, he braced himself and pulled out as languidly as he had pushed in, letting John feel every tantalizing inch of his cock. The slow, sweet drag made John bite his lip against the moans that wanted to spill out. Sherlock’s free hand roamed his body as he pushed back in, pinching at John’s nipples, cupping his balls, sliding over his belly, everywhere except for where John really wanted it. He reached for his cock.

“Don’t.” The arm across his chest tightened in warning. “I like seeing you come from this and nothing else.”

“God.” There were spots flashing in front of John’s eyes. As sinfully good as this was it wasn’t enough for either of them and he knew that Sherlock knew it. Still, though, he didn’t reach for his cock again, instead wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s arm, leaning back against him and wondering, somewhat desperately, how long Sherlock was going to make him wait.


	41. Chapter 41

In spite of John’s pleading, Sherlock, it seemed, wanted to savour the experience. He kept John tucked up against him and ducked his head so that he could press his face to the back of John’s neck. His lips moved, breathing unintelligible words against John’s damp skin, and John gasped at the tickling sensation and wished desperately that his hearing was good enough to be able to make out what Sherlock was saying over the pounding of the water. He dropped one of his hands and reached back, gripping Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock’s arm tightened around his chest in response, his hips shifting minutely.

The reminder of how they were connected was enough to make John shiver, the brief thrill of pleasure making his senses tingle before it faded. Having Sherlock inside of him was easing a need that he hadn't been fully aware of, and standing there with Sherlock behind him, trapped in the warm cocoon of his alpha's arms, was enough for that moment. The throbbing desire to come was fading to the background as he enjoyed the hazy mixture of warm, calming pleasure thrumming through his blood, their combined scent filling the spacious room until it was like a drug that he wanted more of.

But gradually the aching of his hard cock permeated the almost drunken haze that he'd sunk into and John tilted his head back with an impatient moan, beyond words, shifting restlessly on Sherlock's cock. He clenched down hard and heard Sherlock moan against his shoulder in response, the arm around his chest trembling slightly. If John could have he would have begged, but as it was all he felt capable of was tilting his neck to the side, inviting Sherlock to sink his teeth in deep. Fortunately the silent pleading seemed to be enough to inflame his alpha into action and Sherlock grunted, beginning to move his hips slowly, tiny, circular thrusts that brushed the tip of his cock against John's prostate almost constantly. John bit his lip on a cry that would've been far too loud and dug his nails into Sherlock's arm, needing to hold onto something as the teasing sensation inflamed him.

"Sherlock," he breathed, and it was actually hard to make his tongue form the words, to make his brain work hard enough to remember what speech felt like, "please. I can't... I can't anymore. Oh god, please." And, as though he needed something to seal the deal, he whimpered, the pitiful sound emerging from the depths of his chest.

"Shh," Sherlock murmured again, turning his head and brushing a kiss across the nape of John's neck. "I know what you need, my John. I'm going to give it to you, I promise." His thrusts became harder, picking up the pace agonizingly slowly. He never touched John's cock, just kept on endlessly hitting his prostate, and it was like a slow coil of fire that may have been reluctant to light but was going up in a bang now that it was started; John actually couldn’t breathe, he really couldn’t, but he could feel it in his belly, his thighs, his buttocks, all of them were tightening and he could hear Sherlock rumbling deep in his chest as he fought to stave off his own orgasm and make John come first.

It didn't take much: when Sherlock bit down suddenly, his teeth sinking deeply into the bond mark that he'd already left on John's neck, that did it, shoving him ruthlessly over the edge before he even knew what was going on. John cried out helplessly at the overwhelming deluge of pleasure that lit up every single nerve in his body and squeezed his eyes shut as he came all over the shower wall. One of the most powerful orgasms he'd ever experienced left him feeling utterly boneless, hanging limply in Sherlock's grip as the man groaned around John's flesh and spent himself deep inside of John's body. At the same time he threw out a hand and braced the two of them against the side of the tub, holding John safely to him, which was good because John knew he would have slumped to the ground otherwise. 

They stayed there for a handful of minutes while Sherlock caught his breath, the water already cleansing away any traces of what they’d shared, and then he nuzzled John's neck, brushing his lips over the mark he had re-made. John trembled when Sherlock kissed the mark. In spite of what they had just done the tender kiss felt almost unbearably intimate and he was overcome with how much he loved Sherlock, this man, his alpha, standing behind him. He turned his head and caught Sherlock's lips without opening his eyes. Sherlock made a soft sound and took his hand away from the wall so that he could cup the back of John’s head instead, fingers stroking lazily through the blond and grey hairs. When he pulled away, he gently lowered John onto the floor of the tub and picked up the cloth and scentless body wash he'd been using before John joined him.

"Let me," he said quietly, like John had protested, and he knelt and began to clean John as tenderly as though John were a newborn baby. John submitted to the cleaning in silence, willingly allowing Sherlock to do whatever he wanted, watching through half-open eyes as Sherlock massaged the soap into his skin. And when he was fully covered from neck to his toes, he let Sherlock help him up and they both stood under the spray, exchanging soft, sweet kisses that left him reeling with a giddy feeling.

“I never knew,” John mumbled, “I never knew it could be like this.” And honestly he didn’t know what he was talking about anymore, whether he meant being a werewolf or being Sherlock’s partner or even just their relationship; John had never felt so _loved_ before. In that moment he was entirely certain that Sherlock would have done anything for him, and that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, his eyes sweeping silently over John’s body, and then he kissed John again and turned the shower off. He remained silent as he fetched a thick towel and began to dry both of them off, making sure that John was taken care of before he turned his attention to his own body. John watched for a minute before he reached out and put a hand over Sherlock’s, stalling the almost frantic motions. This time he was the one who reached out and cupped Sherlock’s face, pulling him into a kiss. 

“I love you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth, and he felt it when Sherlock smiled.

“I love you too, John."


	42. Chapter 42

Mycroft was gone by the time that Sherlock and John made it back out into the kitchen, but there was now a spread of food on the table that would have rivalled even one of Mrs Hudson’s delicious meals. John looked at the food hungrily, feeling empty for an entirely different reason now, and sat down quickly. He was pulling an empty plate over in front of him when he realized that Sherlock hadn’t sat down yet and was, in fact, ignoring the food entirely. He looked up at his alpha, who had moved over to stand by the door and was looking out into the living room with an expression that looked almost worried, and suddenly the food seemed a lot less appetizing.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” he asked, half-rising from the table. 

“What?” Sherlock blinked at him and then shook his head. He waved his hand to indicate that John should sit down and said, “Nothing. Eat, John. I can tell that you’re hungry. Mycroft ordered this food for you. He can always have more sent up once Lestrade wakes up.”

John narrowed his eyes slightly and felt a grin twitching at the corner of his lips. He only sat because he suspected he knew what Sherlock was doing, which was checking on Lestrade. He also knew that Sherlock would rather cut off his hand then admit he had been concerned about someone who wasn’t John or Mrs Hudson. “I’m sure that he’s fine,” he said lightly, picking up a second empty plate. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock get away without eating. The transformation from human to wolf and back again required a lot of energy and they would have another full night ahead of them.

He put two eggs, a piece of toast, and some tomatoes on the plate before setting it down. “Come over here and eat,” he said.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but seemed to know better than to argue. He sat down across from John and picked up a fork. John watched him out of the corner of his eye as he put some food down on his own plate. There was something bothering Sherlock but he wasn’t sure what it was. Moriarty? He’d been meaning to talk to Sherlock about that but it just never seemed to be the right time, and he didn’t think the middle of Mycroft’s flat was it. Besides, any mention of Moriarty usually stirred Sherlock up into a frenetic energy that could last for hours. He seemed to be calm, just tense, his grip on the fork just a little too tight. John poured them both a cup of tea (he didn’t think Sherlock needed any coffee right now) and took a sip before he spoke.

“Alright, what’s wrong?”

To his credit, Sherlock didn’t try to act like John was imagining things, but he didn’t come right out with it, either. “What makes you think that there is something wrong?”

“Because I know you,” John said simply. “I can tell.” He frowned slightly, casting his mind back over the past few hours. As far as he could see there was only one thing that stood out as being unusual for Sherlock, and that was the fact that they had come to Mycroft’s flat in the first place. Sherlock normally did whatever he could to avoid spending any time with his brother. So why had they willingly come here? It couldn’t have been just to check on Lestrade or see if Mycroft and Lestrade had really mated, not when Sherlock had already deduced that. There had to be another reason. He asked, “Sherlock, why are we here? If we were going to just stay inside for the full moon, why didn’t we remain back at 221b?”

The fork hit the plate and Sherlock pushed both of them away so that he could fold his hands on the table. “John, do you remember back when we first met I told you that Mycroft was the leader of the pack of London in all but name?”

“Yes,” John nodded. “Mycroft said he had a minor position and you told me that wasn’t true.”

“It’s the lie he likes to hand out to make himself seem more unassuming. The idiots who believe it deserve what they get,” Sherlock muttered with a derisive shake of his head. 

John hid a smile with his cup of tea. “And? I assume you’re going somewhere with this.”

“Yes, well. There are certain rules when it comes to being accepted into a pack,” Sherlock explained. “Until we mated, you were a non-pack wolf living in pack territory. You were given some leeway because you’re an omega and because you were with me. They know that I don’t always strictly adhere to the rules, but it would have been only a matter of time before you were approached and challenged.” He looked at John. “As an omega, you would have been required to either mate with an alpha or a beta or leave London.”

His heart was beginning to pound and John swallowed with difficulty, setting his cup down. “Is that why – ”

“No!” Sherlock said, so fiercely that John couldn’t help but believe him. He reached across the table and took John’s hand. “I told you that I never wanted an omega, John, and that was true until I met you. There is something about you that calls to me and it is strong enough that I would have wanted you with me even if you were just a normal human. The fact that you were an omega and we were able to mate is not the important thing. What matters is how we work and live together.”

“I believe you,” John said, because he did, god help him. 

Sherlock relaxed a little. “Yes, well, good. In our case, being mated to someone within the pack is sort of like an automatic acceptance. The same goes for Lestrade. But in the interest of your safety it’s best for us to spend this full moon here and for us to mate as much as possible.” He wore a faint smirk now. “Not only will your scent begin to take on that of the pack by being here, but it will also help you to smell more like me.”

“And I’m sure you would just hate that,” he said wryly. 

“I’m only doing this for your safety, John.”

He laughed and reached over with his free hand, pushing the plate back in front of Sherlock. “Right. Look, if we’re going to be having loads of sex then you’d best eat your breakfast. I wouldn’t want my alpha collapsing in the middle of it.”

“I don’t think you need to concern yourself with that,” Sherlock said but he did release John’s hand and pick up his fork. He cut himself a small piece of egg and lifted it to his mouth. John watched him, smiling, and then turned his attention to his own breakfast, mopping up a bit of jam with some of his toast. But he stopped as a thought occurred to him.

“Hang on. Does the same go for Lestrade and your brother?”

“I’m afraid so,” Sherlock said with a slight grimace. Clearly the idea of having sex with John under the same roof as Mycroft and Lestrade didn’t thrill him. “As soon as Lestrade wakes up, Mycroft will feed him and then whisk him off to his bedroom, no doubt. I suggest you eat quickly because I do not want to be around when that happens, not if you want to have any sex over the next couple of days. Watching my brother make eyes at my detective inspector is not my idea of a turn on.”

“Nor mine,” John muttered, shuddering. “Do you have a bedroom here?”

“Yes.” Sherlock smirked and licked his fork. Watching that long tongue curl around the cool metal made John swallow hard. “Eat quickly, John. I’m all too happy to show you where it is.”


	43. Chapter 43

Even before he let the memories of the night before sweep over him, Gregory Lestrade knew that the change had been successful. He felt as though he could hear everything, from the wind blowing the curtains around to the faint shuffle of footsteps against the carpet. And the _smells_... his head was swimming and he didn’t dare open his eyes, he felt like one more addition to the already overwhelming swarm of information that was flooding into him at an extremely fast rate would push him over the edge. So he was entirely unprepared for the gentle, familiar hands that cupped his cheeks and tipped his head up.

“My?” he asked without opening his eyes, and he knew that he was right before Mycroft spoke. He could smell it, that rich scent that spoke of pastries and paper, ink and new cars, umbrella polish and misty rain, a scent that spoke to something very deep inside of him. Greg opened his eyes and looked up at his partner, his _alpha_.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked quietly, taking care to keep his voice soft enough that it wouldn’t grate on his sensitive hearing. Before answering, Greg sat up, and he gasped when the world swam around him, threatening to pitch him sideways. Mycroft’s hands left his face and gripped his shoulders instead, holding him securely in place. “It’s alright, Gregory. This is normal. It will take some time for your mind to become acclimatized to the changes in your body, not to mention the disorientation from last night. Let me help you up.”

Greg leaned on him heavily as they rose together and it wasn’t so bad once he was actually standing. Now that he was awake and paying attention, the sounds were dulled, and in Mycroft’s presence it felt like all of the smells were being filtered so that only the strongest made it past his scent. That was alright. He put a hand over his belly when it growled. “I’m starving,” he said, surprised only because he couldn’t remember the last time he had been this hungry. Not since he was in uni, at least.

“Also normal. I’ve already had some food sent up. Come on.” Keeping one arm around Greg’s waist, Mycroft began walking them slowly in the direction of the kitchen. Greg cocked his head as they moved, hearing something that was quite... odd. It took him a full minute to place the sounds and when he did his cheeks flushed pink. Mycroft grinned. “I see you were able to hear that my brother and his mate are in the flat,” he observed, sounding pleased. “I believe they are in Sherlock’s bedroom.”

“Why?” Greg asked, relieved to sit down in one of the chairs. There was a lot of food on the table but he was pretty confident he would be able to eat most of it without too much trouble. He felt like he hadn’t eaten for over a week. “I mean, Sherlock hates you. I can’t imagine why he’d willingly spend time under the same roof as you. Is there something wrong with John?”

“No, John is fine, as I’m sure you saw last night. It has to do with the pack,” Mycroft explained, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He fussed with the cuffs until they were just so before he began putting a plate of food together for Greg. “John’s scent still smells foreign. Being here over the full moon should change that, especially now that he and Sherlock have mated. You already know that every time we change, our scent takes on some characteristics of where it happens. He’ll smell like Sherlock and the pack now and that will be enough to keep anyone from touching him.”

“By anyone, I’m guessing you mean Moriarty,” Greg concluded as Mycroft set the plate down in front of him. He dug into the food hungrily and moaned in pleasure when the first bite slid down his throat. God that was good.

Mycroft swallowed, eyes locked on Greg’s face, before he spoke. “Yes. Moriarty is still an active danger for both of them. At least this way the pack will be on the look-out for John if anything were to happen.” He sat down across from Greg with a cup of tea and a piece of toast. “And the same goes for you. We will have to mate before the moon rises tonight. I hope you’ll feel well enough.”

“I think I can handle it.” Already he could feel his energy returning, though admittedly he wasn’t sure how long it would last. Being a wolf was amazing but also exhausting in ways that he hadn’t been expecting. Still, it was completely worth it if only to be able to see the soft look in Mycroft’s eyes when he looked at Greg. Mycroft had never looked at him like that before, and it was all the more powerful now because Greg was very aware of the bond that linked them, the strongest bond that a wolf could create: that of alpha and omega mates. He would have gone through the ritual a hundred times over to see that look on Mycroft’s face. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Greg finished his first plate and had moved onto the second before he realized that Mycroft kept fidgeting. That in itself was unusual, and it meant that there was something Mycroft wanted to say but he wasn’t quite sure how to say it. He popped a piece of sausage into his mouth and raised an eyebrow in query. “Are you going to say whatever it is you want to say anytime soon?” he asked. “Only I’m guessing you want to have sex _before_ the moon rises... I can’t say I’ve ever wondered what it would be like to have sex with another wolf.”

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft just shook his head. “I was wondering if you experienced any discomfort during the initial change.”

Oh. Greg could practically feel himself softening. It was times like this when he saw the most resemblance between Mycroft and Sherlock. Neither man seemed to know how to handle showing emotion, even towards a partner, and although it had caused problems between them on occasion he mostly thought it was adorable. “I’m fine, My. It hurt a little but it was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Mycroft just nodded, his grip on his teacup particularly tight, and Greg sighed. Since Mycroft had been born a werewolf, he’d never gone through the initial change, and he would probably always feel guilty for causing Greg that pain. He set his fork down and drained the last of his coffee. He licked his lips and stood up, extending one hand to Mycroft. Mycroft’s eyes examined his face for a few seconds, as though trying to access whether or not Greg had been telling the truth, before he rose and took Greg’s hand. They left the kitchen together.


	44. Chapter 44

John woke up feeling deliciously sexed out. He stretched his arms over his head without opening his eyes, mindful of his shoulder, and then relaxed into what had to be one of the most, if not the most, comfortable beds that had ever been made. The room was quiet and dark except for the by now familiar sounds of laptop keys and mobile keys being frantically tapped at the same time. His nose was full of comforting scents and he sighed, rolling over to tuck his face into the curve of one of Sherlock’s hipbones. The typing paused briefly and then a hand found its way into his hair.

“Mmm,” John mumbled in approval at the light massage, sighing as the sensation invoked a set of shivers that trickled down his spine. He wanted to ask how on Earth Sherlock could possibly be awake already - they’d spent most of the day before shagging furiously until the moon rose, and he’d been so exhausted that he had dropped straight into a dead sleep almost before the change had been completed. He nuzzled closer and dropped a light kiss onto the pebbled flesh in front of him. “Have you been awake all night?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I was awake for most of it but fell asleep shortly before dawn. Unfortunately I was woken up by the sound of my brother and his mate about five hours later.” There was no mistaking the undercurrent of affronted disgust that only a younger sibling could manifest, and John was suddenly glad his face was hidden because he couldn’t keep from grinning. “I couldn’t sleep after that. I was afraid the sounds might register on my subconscious and” he shuddered “give me nightmares that I won’t be able to delete.”

Chuckling, John stretched again before tilting his head back so that he could give his disgruntled alpha a fond smile. “This is Mycroft’s house, Sherlock. No matter how much it disturbs you he does have the right to have sex under his own roof.” 

Sherlock muttered something that was probably best left unheard in response and John smiled, propping himself up on an elbow so that he could get a good look at what Sherlock was working on it. A familiar website was on the screen, _The Science of Deduction_ , and he realized that Sherlock appeared to be trolling the forums. Literally, considering that he was in the process of typing up a somewhat inflammatory post in response to several outraged ones. He couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. “What _are_ you doing?”

“Looking for answers,” said Sherlock. “My blog has gotten some curious comments lately and I need more details. I have found that people often give away much more than they intend to when they are angry.”

“And it’s not at all for your own benefit,” John said wryly. He knew Sherlock better than that by this point. Sherlock just gave him a smirk and, after one last caress of John’s hair, returned his attention to the laptop. He finished up his post and clicked on the post button, and they both watched as the screen automatically refreshed to show that it had been posted. Then Sherlock pressed the top down and set the computer aside. He looked oddly troubled.

“John,” he said slowly.

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

“Have you ever heard the name Moriarty?”

John went still and Sherlock let out a sigh as though that confirmed everything he had been thinking. He put the phone he had still been clutching aside and squirmed down the bed until he was lying beside John and they were face to face. Slowly he leaned forward and brought their mouths together into a sweet kiss that he gradually deepened, parting John’s lips and allowing his tongue to slip inside. It took John several seconds before he could get over his surprise at the sudden change in mood and respond, shivering when one of Sherlock’s hands slid up his back and curled possessively around his neck.

“Who is he?” John whispered raggedly once they had parted, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock’s face. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said simply, and then he leaned forward and kissed John again. At the same time he shifted and sat up, pushing at John until he was lying on his back with Sherlock leaning over him. It was good - oh god, of course it was, Sherlock was quickly becoming intimately acquainted every inch of John’s body - but it wasn’t what John wanted at that moment.

Impulsively he pushed back, feeling a thrill at the way that Sherlock stiffened in surprise as they rolled over, putting Sherlock flat on his back. John grinned down at him and ran his hands down his alpha’s chest, enjoying the way that Sherlock’s breathing noticeably quickened at the sensual touch. He looked fascinated by their change in position and John decided to take advantage of it, slinging a leg over Sherlock’s lower belly so that he could straddle the man. Scooting backwards just a little bit allowed his buttocks to come into contact with Sherlock’s cock and both of them moaned at the feeling.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whispered, sounding almost reverent.

John let out a shaky breath but otherwise didn’t respond. He had the feeling that things were going to become a lot more complicated in the near future and for the time being he just wanted to enjoy this. He let his hands slide lower, spanning Sherlock’s ribs, and then curled them around his hips. He rocked backwards just a little, his eyes fluttering shut as the head of Sherlock’s cock rubbed up between his cheeks, smearing just enough pre-come to help make things wet and slippery. Sherlock was shuddering underneath him, his cheeks flushed, and John couldn’t help thinking that he had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Sherlock,” he said finally, reaching around behind to grasp Sherlock’s cock at the base. He was half tempted to move backwards even more and take them both in hand. It would have been good to come like that, to feel the heat of their cocks moving together and watch Sherlock come undone just from his touch, but he wanted more. He stood up, unashamed of his nudity, because how could anyone be ashamed when Sherlock was looking at them like that? He took a step back to position himself and knelt and began teasingly rubbing the tip against his hole, letting Sherlock know what was coming. The tiny sound Sherlock made in response, almost a whimper, was well worth the torture.


	45. Chapter 45

There was nothing in the world quite as good as the look on Sherlock's face at that moment. John really wished that he had the ability to remember everything like his lover did, because he didn't want to forget a single thing: the flush on Sherlock's cheekbones, the way his hair was spread wildly across the pillow, how furiously his pulse was fluttering in his neck. He was certain that if he leaned down and pressed his ear against the man's chest, he would hear the sound of a heart that was pounding at twice the normal speed, every bit as fast as John's was. He was tempted to do just that. But doing so would mean losing contact with another vital place and there was no way he was going to let that happen. He wanted this very scenario too much for that.

"Lube," he rasped, looking down at Sherlock and feeling his hands shake with desire. In another minute or so he was going to plunge himself down on Sherlock's cock regardless of whether or not there was sufficient preparation, no matter how much it would hurt later. Sherlock blinked and then, apparently realizing what John was asking for, threw an arm out and fetched the little tube. He squeezed some out onto his long fingers and reached down beneath John. Both of them moaned when his fingers stroked around John's entrance, playing around the head of Sherlock's cock, they were so close.

"John, good God," Sherlock said. His eyes were glittering with arousal and excitement as he eased a finger inside. John was still a little loose from the day before, but there was definitely sufficient need for preparation. In spite of how much he wanted to fuck his omega, he was gentle as he worked first one and then two fingers into John's body, pumping them in and out slowly. John's head tilted back and he let out a breathy little sigh, his whole body shivering at the sensation, and when Sherlock forced himself to hold still John automatically took up the movement, willingly fucking himself on Sherlock's fingers. It was easily one of the most erotic things that Sherlock had ever been a part of; it made him want to pin John down and savage him.

"Oh no you don't." Sensing the coiled tension in Sherlock's muscles and knowing what it suggested, John reluctantly opened his eyes and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, pulling his hand away. It left him with that dreadful feeling of emptiness, the sensation of having been opened but not filled, but fortunately it did not last long. He lined Sherlock's cock up with his entrance again and allowed his body to sink down. He gasped at the first intrusion, the way the plump head forced his body to open up, and froze. Sherlock wasn't breathing and John didn't blame him. It felt utterly _exquisite_ on his end, and he could only imagine how Sherlock was feeling. John was shaking all over as he began to move, controlling the slide down, until his buttocks were resting against Sherlock's thighs. 

Once in place he remained there for a long moment, categorizing how different it felt from the way it did when Sherlock was leaning over him. He had a lot more control this way, obviously, he could decide what angle and how fast they were going to go. And he liked it. Experimentally he pushed himself up a little and then slipped back down, admiring the way Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and a low growl echoed through the room. John squeezed his muscles deliberately and Sherlock jolted, eyes flying open. He grinned and paused again, resting his full weight on top of his alpha. He knew that Sherlock could take it, probably savoured the pressure because it meant that John was right there with him. 

"I like this," John said softly, placing a hand on Sherlock's belly. It dipped under his palm, evidence that he would have to start feeding Sherlock up more. "Having you in me... I didn't think I would, but I crave it when you're not there." He was blushing faintly as he spoke, the words feeling incredibly intimate in spite of what they were doing, but it was worth it just to see the effect it had on Sherlock. 

Eyes darkening, Sherlock gripped John's hips and thrust up, physically lifting John into the air with the force of it. John gasped and then moaned when the head of Sherlock's cock nudged him just right, striking his prostate with the sort of accuracy that made him wonder if Sherlock had done a study in this sort of thing. "I want to fuck you," Sherlock said and John looked down at him, lips parted, and Sherlock continued, "I want to fuck you until everyone knows you're mine."

"I think they know," he said breathlessly, his knees skidding over the sheets as he finally joined in, meeting Sherlock's movement up by pushing his own body down. He hadn't known that it could be like this, that such a simple change in position could make things so different. He heard himself groaning, his cock bouncing obscenely against his stomach, but he couldn't stop bracing himself long enough to reach down and grab it. If he did, he'd fall forward onto Sherlock's chest and Sherlock would slip out entirely, and that just wasn't an option.

Sherlock's breath was coming more quickly, he was wound up and John could recognize the sign of an impending orgasm by now. He wanted to see it, wanted to see Sherlock come like this, and he squeezed again as he slid back down, working his muscles around Sherlock's cock, effectively milking the man for all he was worth. "Come on, Sherlock," he growled, digging his hands into the sheets and increasing the pace. Sweat dripped off of his body and landed on Sherlock, the beads sliding together until everything was wet and slippery. "Fuck me. Fuck me until everyone knows that _you_ belong to _me_ just as much as I belong to you."

A choked sound emerged in spite of Sherlock's clenched teeth and he arched, slamming up into John as he came. The hot, wet feeling was somehow surprising after all of this time and John went still. He hadn't come yet and it was torture to wait, but the look on Sherlock's face was worth it: he was looking at John like John was something priceless and John didn't think he'd ever get enough of it. Now that he was no longer moving, he propped himself up with a hand to the bed and stroked Sherlock's stomach soothingly as the man came back down. It took a couple of minutes before Sherlock breathed out shakily and opened his eyes, looking up at John. Or more specifically, John's hard cock.

"I have to," John said almost apologetically, reaching for his cock. His own need was thrumming now that he knew Sherlock was back with him.

"Don't," Sherlock said, and then before John could protest he curled a hand around John's thigh and tugged lightly. "Come here."


	46. Chapter 46

Just as Sherlock’s lips closed around the head of his cock and John felt that sweet heat, there was a knock on the door. Both men froze and, by some unspoken agreement, went still. If John had been a religious man, he would have been praying hard that whoever was at the door would leave. He didn’t even care why they were there, just as long as they came back after he’d had the chance to fully explore Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth. He looked down at Sherlock, who had turned his head ever so slightly to stare at the door with narrowed eyes. No doubt he already knew who was on the other side and why he or she had come.

“Sherlock!” That was Mycroft’s voice, and it didn’t sound like he was going to be easily dissuaded. “Sherlock, I know you’re in there. I realize that this may not be an opportune time, but I need to speak with you.”

Sherlock pulled his mouth away just far enough to snap, “Go away, Mycroft!”

“It’s about the pack.”

Those four words were enough to make Sherlock’s mouth freeze an inch away from John’s cock. He silently willed Sherlock to ignore his brother’s words and _keep going for the love of god_ , but as soon as Sherlock stopped John knew that was it. He sighed, trying not to think about the cold shower that he was going to have to take to get rid of his painful erection, and slipped off of Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock shot him an apologetic look and leapt gracefully to his feet, seizing one of his dressing gowns as he moved over to the door. He opened it and joined Mycroft in the hall, closing the door pointedly behind him.

“Cockblocked by Mycroft. I knew there was a reason having sex here was a crap idea,” John muttered, looking mournfully down at his cock. He could have wanked himself off, of course, but he knew that would result in an inadequate orgasm that would only leave him hungering for more. Better not to cause extra torment and just take the bloody shower.

He had hopes that Sherlock would join him, but by the time he had finished there was no sign of his alpha. As he moved back into the bedroom he saw definite signs that Sherlock had been and gone. The bed was still a mess but there was now a dressing gown thrown on top of the sheets, and Sherlock’s trousers and shirt were both missing. John shook his head and fetched his own clothing, pulling them on quickly. Now that he wasn’t in danger of exploding from sheer sexual frustration, he was curious to know what Mycroft had deemed important enough to disturb them. 

The flat was quiet when he stepped out. John made his way out to the kitchen and realized that it was already occupied by Greg. “Good morning,” he said. “Where are Sherlock and Mycroft?”

“They ran off,” Greg said, sounding unusually grumpy. Clearly he wasn’t too pleased by the unexpected wake up call, either. “Mycroft got a call from someone, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was about. It must have been important, though, because I haven’t seen him move that fast in years. He told me to stay inside and that we weren’t to open the door to anyone other than them.”

“I see,” said John, who could sympathize, as he wouldn’t have appreciated being treated like a child either. He sat down across from Greg and looked at the food on the table. Though it looked appetizing, he wasn’t sure he was really hungry. He couldn’t help thinking about what he and Sherlock had started talking about the night before. “Greg, have you got any idea of who Moriarty is?”

Greg stilled at the name, and when he looked up again his eyes had gone sharp and wary. “Where did you hear that name, John?”

“The man who tried to kill Lucy and me at the cafe – he said he was sent by Moriarty. And Sherlock asked me about him last night, but I didn’t get the chance to ask him for any details.”

“Bloody hell.” Greg set his cup of tea down and cradled his head in his hands. 

“You know, then, who he is?”

“I’ve come across the name recently, yes, though I don’t know nearly as much as I’d like to. I wanted to talk to Sherlock about it – we think he’s a suspect in the omega murders.”

John wrinkled his nose. “The omega murders?”

“Yes. Over the past couple of years there have been some omegas gone missing, and even their alphas can’t track them. Some of them turn up dead after the fact and others are just never seen again. Originally I thought that the Drebber case might be one of them. Sherlock has been investigating but even he was stumped.” Greg scowled down at the remains of his breakfast. “The name Moriarty only surfaced recently, and it was Mycroft who first brought him to my attention..”

“Yeah.” As Mycroft’s mate, Greg was likely privy to information that most other people would never know. “Who is he?”

“We don’t know very much, though it makes me wonder if maybe Moriarty is the reason the two of them left so quickly.” He sighed and mopped up the rest of his egg with a piece of toast. “It’s an alpha thing, you know, the desire to protect their omegas from harm or even unpleasant news. I thought maybe Mycroft would be immune to it. I guess not.”

“I could’ve told you that,” John said wryly, finally piling some eggs onto his plate. “You wouldn’t think it, but Sherlock can be pretty possessive when he wants to be.”

Greg just shot him a knowing smirk at that and for a few minutes the two of them sat in silence, finishing their breakfasts. John drank a couple of cups of tea before he realized that if this was all he and Greg had to do that day, he was going to go stir crazy very quickly. The last month had been a whirlwind of activity for the case, and he was not looking forward to having so much downtime. God only knew when Sherlock and Mycroft would return. He knew that when Sherlock got caught up in something he could be gone for days at a time, and he didn’t relish the idea of being cooped up in the flat for a week. 

“I’ve got some files about the cases,” said Greg, who seemed to be thinking the same thing. “What we know abut Moriarty is written down in them. It wouldn’t hurt to have a refresher. As Sherlock’s mate, I could probably let you have a look. If you wanted.”

Between that and the boredom of the day stretching before him, there was no contest. “Oh god, yes.”


	47. Chapter 47

On the whole, the information about Moriarty did not prove to be especially illuminating. John leaned back against the sofa and rubbed wearily at his face. His head was aching after what felt like days of staring down at pages with tiny print, even though it had really only been a handful of hours. He now knew more about how all of the omegas had disappeared than he'd ever wanted to know. Most of them had vanished out in public, so it had taken time before their absence was noticed. Their alphas couldn't track them, no friends or family were contacted, and there was a distinct lack of evidence to suggest that they had even been kidnapped. In fact, the police couldn't even be sure that the omegas hadn't just walked out; the only reason some of them were even being treated as kidnappings was because it was so uncustomary for a born omega to act like that.

But when it came to Moriarty, the details were disturbingly brief. The man was almost like a phantom. His name came up every now and again, mostly through the occasional witness, but John noted that every witness who had the nerve to mention him died not long after. Apparently Moriarty did not approve of having his name widely broadcast. According to Mycroft's files, they didn't even have any background on him, and forget about a picture. Moriarty had just appeared out of the darkness one day and started wreaking havoc, and not just when it came to making omegas disappear, either. One of the files suggested that he had been involved in a lot more than just that.

"Almost makes me wish I'd let that idiot take us after all," John muttered more to himself than to Greg. He was curious about this man, this Moriarty, who was proving to be such a puzzle to both Sherlock and Mycroft. He suspected that it wasn't often someone managed to baffle both of the Holmes brothers.

"What's that?" Greg glanced up from the file he was making notes on. 

"Nothing. I was just saying I think I need to take a break. We've been hunched over this stuff for a good four hours," he replied, checking the time on his phone. No wonder his shoulder had stiffened up. He grimaced slightly as he moved his arm gingerly, rotating it in a large, gentle circle. His hand tingled as the blood began to flow back into it, and the scar pulled as he moved, but overall it felt good. "If we don't stop I'm going to start seeing Moriarty every time I turn around."

Greg smiled at that and set his file aside, capping his pen. "Pretty hard to do that when we don't know what he looks like," he joked, stretching his hands over his head. His back cracked and he sighed.

"I've got a good imagination." John took a closer look at his friend, noticing the shadows under Greg's eyes and the pallor of his face. He didn't remember much about the initial change, since most of it had been lost to a feverish haze brought on by a raging infection. Was it normal for Greg to look like that? Was it being separated from Mycroft or just the effect the change was having on him? And he couldn't help thinking that staying indoors all day probably wasn't the best thing for either of them. Some fresh air would do them both good.

"What is it? I know that look," said Greg, and even though he sounded wary he was grinning. "That's the look Sherlock gets when he's thinking about doing something I won't approve of."

John threw him a look of mock horror. "Don't tell me Sherlock is rubbing off on me. I don't think I could take it." He stood up, balancing his weight carefully as his muscles complained about the movement. "I think I'm going to make a quick trip to 221b. I've got to pick up some fresh clothes. I know that these ones were washed last night but I could use a change."

"We're not supposed to leave," Greg reminded him.

"I thought the whole point of being a changed omega was that we didn't have to listen to everything our alphas say?" John tossed back, raising a pointed eyebrow. "Look, I love Sherlock, probably a hell of a lot more than I should. But I didn't mate him with him with the intention of being a good little omega who will do everything he says. If he wants me to stay inside, he can bloody well explain to me why it's so important. Otherwise, if I'm bored and sick of being in here then I'm going to leave, and he's just going to have to deal with it. This is just stupid. God knows how long the two of them are going to be gone for. It could be days before Sherlock even bothers to remember we're here!" Realizing that he was ranting a bit, he stopped, embarrassed. 

Greg, however, just looked thoughtful. "No, you're right," he said at last. "I think I forget sometimes how easy it is to be railroaded by Sherlock and Mycroft. Both of them can make the stupidest things sound perfectly reasonable."

"So you'll come?" John asked, pleased when Greg nodded. He fetched their coats and pulled his own on, realizing that he was even more excited to be getting out than he'd thought. Mycroft's flat was posh and had everything they could ever need, but there was no substitute for home. Even if he only stayed at Baker Street long enough to see Mrs Hudson and have a quick cuppa, it would be worth the trip. “Do you have anywhere you want to go?”

“My flat,” Greg said after a moment’s thought. “And the yard, just for a minute. I want to see if there have been any new developments on the omega cases. I don’t know what Mycroft told Anthea to tell them, but I’m sure that it would be enough to make Sally not send me anything if she felt it would distract me.”

John just nodded. He still didn’t like Sally Donovan very much. The memory of her warning him away from Sherlock was a bit too fresh for that. They walked outside and were hit with a cold, bracing wind that chilled him all the way down to his toes. He shivered and lowered his head as Greg walked over to the edge of the pavement and raised a hand for a cab. It took him a couple of tries to flag one down. They both climbed hastily into the warm backseat and Greg leaned forward, requesting that they be driven to 221b Baker Street. Just hearing those words filled John with a sense of contentment: he was going home.


	48. Chapter 48

One step inside of 221b told John that he and Greg had excellent timing. Hurricane Sherlock had already been there and gone and somehow the flat had survived, though it probably would have been deemed a goner by anyone else's standards. He stood in the doorway and surveyed the sitting room, shaking his head. There were papers all over the place. He literally could not take a single step without stepping on a handful. Books were stacked around the table, some in piles taller than John. Expensive (and possibly stolen) chemistry equipment had been scattered recklessly over every available surface; some of it had fallen off and was lying on the floor in pieces. That was what really made him worry - no matter how obsessed he got with a case, Sherlock always took care of his equipment.

"Oi, John, are you almost finished?" Greg called, coming slowly up the stairs. He'd stayed behind to pay the cabbie, but had grown restless when John failed to come back downstairs. "Only there're just a few hours until sunset, and I - Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened to your flat?"

"Sherlock," John said simply, lifting his nose and sniffing. From the strong smell of Sherlock in the air, he could tell that his alpha hadn't been gone for very long. The scent was too fresh. He wondered what Sherlock had been doing there in the first place. Looking for something, judging by the mess, but what? What could be so important? "I bet he didn't even notice he left the place in such a state."

"Sounds about right. Blimey, it looks worse than it does when we do drug busts," Greg said wonderingly, shaking his head slowly. His eye caught something and he bent, not noticing that John had turned to stare at him.

"Sorry, when you come to do _what_?"

"Drug busts." Greg looked up and caught sight of the expression on John's face. He stilled, his hands unconsciously crumbling the sides of the paper he was holding. "Err... Sherlock didn't tell you?"

"No." John would have definitely remembered a conversation about something like that. It would have been impossible not to. His heart was suddenly beating very fast. Sherlock and drugs? It didn't compute that someone who was so bloody brilliant would do something that was so damaging. And yet at the same time, he had evidence already that Sherlock did not treat his body well. He rarely ate or slept, and had avoided even sex until John came into his life. In some ways, it made a horrible kind of sense. He tried to remember seeing anything on Sherlock that would have given him a hint, but fuck - he'd never thought about examining his lover's arms for track marks! The idea made him feel sick.

"John, look - "

"Don't. Just... don't." He shook his head, waving off whatever Greg wanted to say. He couldn't think about this, not right now. There was too much going on. If he stopped to think about Sherlock doing drugs... if he stopped to think about Harry and the last time he had seen her... he wouldn't be able to keep going. He had to shove it aside until he got the chance to shake some sense into his ridiculously stupid alpha. "What did you find?"

Greg watched him for a moment longer, looking worried, before he responded. "Not much. But I don't think we'll have to go to the met after all. Sherlock seems to have beaten us there. He's got copies of files with today's date on it." He held up the paper to show John.

"Well, that's something I guess." John moved towards the sofa, which was slightly neater than everything else in the room. He looked down at the file on top. It had an official insignia on the front he didn't recognize, but it didn't stop him from picking the file up and opening it. Right on top was a paper containing more information about Moriarty. And there was something else, too. A surveillance photo. It was dark and sort of grimy, and the bloke in the picture had half of his body turned away, but he was looking over his shoulder so there was a decent shot of his face. A face that John recognized.

"Christ, it's like the filing room at the met exploded in here. Would you look at - where the hell does he get this stuff from? This was locked in my - "

"Greg."

The tone of John's voice was enough to stop Greg's rant mid-sentence. He turned and looked at his friend, noting the suddenly stiff way that John was standing. His shoulders had gone tense and he was very still. "John? What's wrong?"

"This man - I know this man." Slowly, John turned around and pointed to the photo. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. The meeting was something he had barely paid attention to at the time, too preoccupied with the strange new alpha he'd just met and the exciting new life that had been dangling at his fingertips. But now that he was seeing that face again, it was all rushing back. Walking into the building. Talking to Mary. Meeting her cousin - and her cousin's boyfriend. John's mouth went painfully dry.

“You _know_ him?” Dropping the paper, Greg surged across the room towards him. “Jesus, John, do you know who that is?”

“Moriarty,” John said softly, a fine tremor passing through his body. It was one part fear and one part rage. 

“How do you know him?”

“I met him when I went to pick my things up, just before I moved in with Sherlock. One of the girls who worked at the outreach place, she had a cousin who was there when I showed up, Molly I think Her boyfriend was with her. It was him, Greg. I’m sure of it.”

Now Greg had stiffened. “Molly?” he said in an odd tone. “No, it couldn’t – John, she didn’t have red hair, did she?”

John thought back to that mousy little girl. “Yeah, she did. You know her?”

“Sherlock does. She works at the morgue at St. Bart’s.”

In a flash, John recalled Mary saying as much. “That’s her,” he said. “You said Sherlock knows her?”

“They work together all the time. Well, when I say work – ” Greg hesitated, something unsettling in his expression. “You don’t think Sherlock knows Moriarty?”

“No,” John said, but he looked back down at the photo anyway. Sherlock, he knew, was fascinated with the omega murders and, by extension, Moriarty. He was fairly certain Sherlock really didn’t know Moriarty, but he was equally sure that if Sherlock had realized who Moriarty was he wouldn’t have hesitated to go after him, even alone. “Come on, Greg. We’re going to Bart’s.”


	49. Chapter 49

Bart's had changed a lot since the last time that John had walked through the halls, and as he followed Greg down towards the morgue he realized that returning to the hospital made him feel old. It didn't seem so very long ago that he had been a student here, and yet one glance at the students who were walking around told him that it had been much longer than he realized. He ducked his head to hide his wince and hurried to keep up with Greg, noting with a slight grimace that his limp, which had been absent for some time, had returned. If Greg noticed, he had the decency to remain silent as he came to a stop in front of one of the doors and gestured inside.

"That's her," he said quietly, his voice echoing through the empty hall. "Molly Hooper. Look familiar?"

The girl standing inside of the room was indeed vaguely familiar. He recognized the soft coppery hair, now tucked back into a high ponytail, and nodded. Greg pulled the door open and the girl spun around to meet them, and he realized that she was a little older than he'd originally assumed. She was likely in her early thirties, but her face had an innocence to it that, at first glance, could easily be mistaken for youth. He tried on a smile and was relieved when she tentatively returned it. It was clear, though, that she did not remember John because she glanced past him at Greg.

"Hello, Detective Inspector. What can I do for you?" she asked. She started to bring a hand up to run it through her hair and stopped when she realized she was still holding a scalpel. With a high-pitched, nervous giggle, she set the sharp instrument down on the table.

Hoping to put her at ease, John looked past her at the body that was behind her and said, "Thirty-year-old male died of an overdose?" The words made his stomach twist - made him think of Sherlock and the unpleasant revelation that Greg had sprung on him not an hour earlier. He tried to push the image of Sherlock on a morgue table from his mind.

"Oh, yes." Molly peered at him with more interest. "How did you know?"

"The pupils," said John. "And the track marks up his arms - the one on his right elbow looks fresh enough to have been caused within a few hours of his death. I'm a doctor.” He paused. “Or I used to be, anyway."

"Molly, we're here because we need your help," Greg broke in. "We need to ask you a few questions about your boyfriend."

"I haven't got one," said Molly.

"You did. His name was Jim?" John prompted.

Her face darkened a little and she bit her lip before responding. "Yes, I did have a boyfriend by that name, but I don't anymore. We broke up. Has he - has he done something wrong?" She looked between the two of them, slightly alarmed. "I don't know where he is."

"What did you know about him?" Greg asked.

Molly considered the question. She thought about it for so long that John's heart was already sinking when she said slowly, "Not very much, I'm afraid. Jim was kind of odd that way. He would listen to me talk for hours on end, but whenever I tried to ask him anything about himself he would clam right up. He said that I was much more fascinating to talk about." She coloured slightly. "I'm sorry. I don't know much about him. He used to work in our IT department, but he doesn't anymore. I went over there to return one of his jackets last night and they said he quit unexpectedly."

Greg and John exchanged glances, both of them thinking the same thing: they were fairly certain that any records about this Jim from IT would be entirely falsified. "How did you meet?" John asked.

"He got lost one day," Molly said, smiling a little at the memory. "He stumbled in here accidentally, and I helped him to find his way." Suddenly, she frowned. "I'm sorry, why are you asking me these questions?"

"We just want to ask him some questions about a crime that he may have witnessed," Greg told her soothingly. "We're having a hard time tracking him down, and I thought that you might be able to help. Are you sure you can't tell us anything else? Do you have an address where he used to live, maybe? Or a phone number? How did you contact him?"

Her face brightened. "I do have a number for him. I left him a message about his jacket last night and never heard back. Maybe you'll have better luck. My phone is just in my locker - I can get it for you if you like."

"Please," John said. Molly nodded and hurried from the room, leaving them alone. As soon as she was gone, John turned to Greg. "I _know_ that's him. Damn, I can't believe I had Moriarty standing two feet away from me and I didn't even know!" Of course, at the time he'd only just met Sherlock and hadn't even known who Moriarty was, but the knowledge still rankled. All of this could have been so easily avoided if he had only known. Instead Moriarty had played Molly for a fool and left her hanging when he was done with her.

"You couldn't have known, John," Greg said quietly. "But we should have. When I think that he was this close - Sherlock probably fucking _talked_ to him, he spends so much time here. That's exactly what Moriarty wanted, though. To play around right under our noses and have none of us be the wiser about it." He looked disgusted.

"Here you go," Molly said, walking back into the room. She held out a bright pink phone. Greg took it and looked at the number. 

"Do you mind if I call from your phone? He may be more likely to answer if he recognizes the number," he explained. When Molly nodded her agreement, he pressed the call button. John watched, holding his breath tensely, as the call connected. The ringing seemed to go on forever. Molly was looking at the both of them curiously, clearly wondering why this mattered so much. She got her answer when the machine picked up and a high-pitched, smooth voice rolled forth.

" _Hello, you've reached the inbox of Jim Moriarty. If this is Greg Lestrade and John Watson, you're too late. I'm afraid your alphas have already come to play, and they won’t be home tonight. If you'd like to see them again, be at 221b Baker Street tomorrow morning at 9:00am. If you don't show up, I'll assume you don't care to have them alive anymore. For anyone else, leave a message after the beep._ "


	50. Chapter 50

Moriarty had Sherlock. That knowledge sank into John's mind like acid, leaving behind razor sharp, jagged edges that felt as though they were all clashing together painfully as he tried to make sense of it all. He was vaguely aware of Greg, who looked positively ashen now, saying something to Molly. Whatever it was got her out of the room, which was a good thing because John could feel the tremor in his leg threatening to come back with a vengeance. He let out a slow, rough exhale and leaned against the table, not caring that there was still a dead body laid out over it. Greg followed his lead and collapsed into the nearest chair. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, John said hoarsely, "That - _bloody_ idiot. I bet Sherlock walked right into his trap and never even gave it a second thought until it was too late."

Greg gave a low, mirthless laugh and shook his head, which was buried in his hands. "You think Mycroft is any better?" he asked, looking up. "The two of them are so damn smart and so fucking stupid at the same time. They knew how dangerous Moriarty was, and yet they still -" He broke off with obvious difficulty and buried his face again.

John leaned back against the table and shut his eyes. Sherlock had been captured by Moriarty. No matter how many times he thought about it or how he phrased it, the words sounded no better. If anything, it only served to make him feel even worse. He recalled the details he'd read in the files about the omegas who had turned up dead, the things that had been done to them before they died. Horrible, disturbing things that were fuel for nightmares. Moriarty was a sick son of a bitch, and there was no doubt in John's mind that the bastard would have fun playing with two alphas for a change. Would there even be anything left of Sherlock or Mycroft by tomorrow morning?

He opened his eyes again and took out his phone. It was likely pointless, but he had to try. With shaking fingers he dialled Sherlock's number and held it up to his ear. The phone rang four times before it went to Sherlock's voicemail, a short, derisive message that strongly suggested the caller not bother leaving a message unless it involved a case. In spite of himself, John smiled as he hung up. He sent a quick text to Sherlock begging him to respond before looking over at Greg, who also had his phone out. One look at the equally grim expression on Greg's face told him that Mycroft had not answered, either.

"Here," Molly said then, hurrying back into the room. She was clutching two cups of coffee, which she thrust at both John and Greg. It was black, thicker even than the sludge available at NSY, but John drank it gratefully. The taste was dreadful and he burnt the roof of his mouth, but at least it helped to clear the fog from his mind. He knew that he had to move past his frustration and anger with Sherlock and focus on trying to rescue the two alphas before Moriarty had his way.

"Thanks," he said to Molly, and she smiled hesitantly.

"Is Sherlock in danger?" she asked, wrapping her arms around her midsection. Her eyebrows had formed a thin line of worry above her eyes. "Has Jim done something to them?"

"It's looking that way," John told her wearily, wondering if they dared return to Baker Street now. Would it be safe for them to spend the night in the flat? Or would it invite trouble once they were in their wolf forms? He had confidence in himself by now, knew that he could easily subdue most humans and a fair amount of wolves without trying, but Greg was still so new to being a wolf, so unsteady.

Molly bit her lip. "I'm sorry. Can I help?"

"No," Greg said. He stood up like it took every ounce of his strength to do so. "You've been a big help, Molly, but -"

"I want to help," she said determinedly, cutting him off. "Please, I - it's important to me. To help, I mean. I know that Sherlock's not... he isn't..." She stopped, swallowed hard, and a light pink flush spread across her cheeks. John stared at her in sudden realization and she blushed harder, adding, "I have a flat. You could stay there for the night. If you wanted."

"That might not be such a bad idea," Greg replied after a thoughtful pause.

"Greg -" John started. He didn't want Molly getting mixed up in this any more than she already was. Moriarty had broken her heart, and frankly he thought she was fortunate she'd got off as easy as she had. He could've easily done a lot more, even if she was only a beta.

"I don't think we should go back to Mycroft's flat, John. Moriarty could be watching it. And the same goes for my place," Greg answered wearily. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. "I've thought about calling in one of Mycroft's people, but - there's something about this situation that feels too neat."

John stared at him. "You think Moriarty's got a man on the inside?" He found that hard to believe. Mycroft had always seemed to be so on top of things.

"Could be, I wouldn’t rule anything out at this point." Greg turned to Molly. "Are you sure about this, Molly? It could put you in a fair amount of danger."

"Yes," Molly replied without hesitating. "Jim is - he already knows who I am. If you're right, maybe he wasn't dating me because of me after all." She chewed her lip and looked very small and very pathetic. It was hard not to feel sorry for her. "Sometimes I... I talked about Sherlock. When I was bored. I didn't think it odd that Jim was curious. He might've - some of those details came from _me_. I know I can't do much, but if I could offer you a safe place to stay, well..."

"Thank you," John told her. He hadn't thought much of Molly at first, but she was turning out to be a much stronger person than he'd expected. Having a safe place to pass the night would be immensely helpful, particularly now that they had no idea what the morning was going to bring.


	51. Chapter 51

Molly’s flat was lovely, but there was one key problem. It was small. John spent most of the night wedged uncomfortably into the corner between the sofa and the telly, watching her cat watch him. The poor feline was evidently not used to any wolves other than Molly, because it hissed and spat threateningly whenever John or Greg so much as shifted. Molly, who was sitting on the other side of the room, shifted and whined in a way that was likely supposed to be comforting. He didn’t think it was working, considering that the cat simply growled louder and gave all three of them the most evil look John had ever seen.

It would have been amusing had he not been so concerned. Being here, trapped in his wolf form and knowing that Sherlock was somewhere out there, was driving him mad. There was an itch underneath his skin, and he could only identify it as _need_. Need for Sherlock’s presence, for his comforting scent instead of the cloying, heavy smells that lingered so strongly around Molly’s flat, need to know that Sherlock was safe and wasn’t being abused or tortured by a psychotic madman. The human part of him was restless, and the wolf part was furious.

He wanted to hunt, John thought tiredly, eyes flicking automatically to the cat-shaped clock on the wall. Judging by the amount of light beginning to spill into the room, it would soon be sunrise. His wolf wanted to find Sherlock before then, wanted to use the nose that he had been given and discover where his alpha had been taken and why. It was only by grace of the fact that it was the last night of the moon and his human control was a little bit stronger that kept him from racing out of the flat. He knew that Moriarty was probably waiting, hoping, that he and Greg would make exactly that sort of mistake.

The clock ticked over, finally, and John closed his eyes as the familiar pain raced over him. His body shuddered helplessly through the change, and when it was finally over he was sprawled helplessly across Molly’s floor, naked and shivering. There was a soft sound behind him, Molly’s hand stroking gently across his forehead, and then she was draping a warm blanket around him. John clutched at it and buried his face into the material. It smelled like flowers, sweet and light, and he felt nauseous with the need had not disappeared with his claws and fur but which had only intensified.

“John,” Molly whispered. She was standing in front of him, wearing only a sheet. He could see the curve of her breasts through the thin material, a hint of shell pink nipple. At one time it would’ve turned him on. “John, I need your help. Greg is, he’s not, not good.”

Greg. It gave him something to focus on. John pushed himself up, using the sofa for support. He could see immediately what Molly was talking about. Greg was still on the floor, huddled into a ball. His face was soaked with sweat, but he was shivering. Between Molly and John, they managed to get him up onto the sofa. Molly covered him with another blanket, and then fetched a bowl of water and a cloth for John. She hovered anxiously, her face painted in lines of worry, as John carefully washed Greg’s face. Greg stirred briefly under the touch, but settled back down into an uneasy sleep without ever fully waking up.

“What’s wrong with him? Do you know?” she asked.

“This is his first moon, only his third change. He mated with Mycroft at the same time, and he was acting a little odd last night,” John said, feeling even more helpless when Molly’s eyes widened. He hated not knowing more about werewolves.

“Oh, that’s dangerous,” she breathed. “I don’t know a lot about alphas and omegas, but when you mate and change someone at the same time the bond goes deep. The first change is hard enough as it is.”

There was something about the way she said that. John looked at her. “You’re not a born wolf,” he said. He didn’t know why he was surprised by that, but he was. It was the sort of revelation that would’ve made Sherlock scoff at John’s lack of observation. God, John missed him.

Molly smiled shyly. “No, I’m not. I was turned when I was thirteen. My parents paid someone to do it.”

“They paid someone?” John echoed. He’d heard of that happening before, parents who wanted their children to have more opportunities or for their kids to be cured from a human illness would pay a hefty sum to have their child be bitten and accepted into a werewolf pack. It was rare, though. Most packs did not freely accept new members, especially those that turned out to be betas. He took a closer look at Molly, realizing that she must have been more than she seemed. 

If Molly noticed the scrutiny, she pretended not to. “Yes. My older sister died when she was just a kid. Cancer. They didn’t want to risk the same thing happening to me.” She crouched down and frowned at the pallor of Greg’s skin. “I think he’ll be alright with a bit of rest and some food. Lucky for you both that there’s not another full moon tonight, because it’s not good for an omega to be without their alpha while in wolf form.”

“I hear you,” John muttered, wondering if this had been Moriarty’s plan. Had Sherlock or Mycroft experienced any discomfort? He hoped not. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, realizing that he felt filthy. The stench of death from the morgue seemed to cling to him. “Do you mind if I shower, Molly? I’ll let Greg sleep for a while longer. We’ve got a couple of hours still.”

“Not at all.” Molly rose and stretched, running a hand through her hair, and jumped when there was a knock on the door. She glanced over, puzzled. “I wonder who could be calling at this hour,” she said, and started to shuffle towards the door. John sucked in a sharp breath and started to stand, wanting to tell her to wait, to not open it, but he didn’t get the chance. The door swung open and Molly stopped instantly.

“Hello, darling,” the man standing in the doorway said. He was holding a key, and his thin, smug face was easily recognizable. Jim Moriarty smiled and added, “I know I was supposed to wait until you came to me, but I got bored and I’m just _so_ changeable. I thought I’d come for a surprise visit. Surprise!”


	52. Chapter 52

All things considered, Jim Moriarty did not look like a dangerous man. He was actually about the same height as John but thinner, a fact made even more evident by the close-fitting suit that he was wearing. He looked like a strong breeze would push him over, but the glitter in his dark eyes said that he was not a man who could be so easily beaten. John tensed as he took a step into the flat, and couldn't help wrinkling his nose as he was assaulted by a smell that was - all wrong. It was blood and pain and metal, mixed up with spicy cologne and something bitter, like limes, and it made his senses itch like he had to sneeze but couldn't. 

Molly made a choked sound and stepped backwards, her hands clutching the sheet protectively. "Jim, what are you doing here?" 

"Oh Molly, sweetheart, aren't you pleased to see me?" he crooned, advancing further. Behind him came another bloke, this one taller than all of them and husky, with blond hair and a sleek gun that he cradled in his palm. One glance told John that this man knew how to use the gun and was not afraid of doing so. Moriarty just smiled and reached back, running a smooth hand down the bloke's arm. "This is my mate, Moran. I thought you'd like to have the chance to meet him. He's been ever so curious about the female beta who kept leaving her scent all over me."

"I -" Molly broke off and shivered. "I didn't know that you were mated!"

Moriarty clucked his tongue. "I'm not sure that's a good excuse, Molly dear. Is it, Seb?"

Moran shook his head. He had blue eyes, calm and composed, and he lifted the gun and pointed it straight at Molly's heart. She went pale and stiff, her hands trembling, and that's when John decided that he’d had enough. In one quick move, he was standing in front of Molly. "That's enough," he said sharply, shoulders squared and set, daring Moran to pull the trigger. He'd been shot before. He could handle it a second time.

"Oh, the brave soldier," Moriarty said softly, and Moran lowered the gun like those words had been some sort of private signal. "I've been anxious to meet you again. I wondered about you, what could have captured Sherlock's attention so thoroughly, because there doesn't really seem to be anything special about you, Johnny. You look like a pretty average bloke to me. Poor run-down army doctor, no different from any other soldier that's been to war and couldn't take it and came home broken." His smile was quick and cruel. "What would you have done if Sherlock hadn't reeled you in?"

John clenched his hands into fists. He knew that Moriarty was baiting him. But that didn't make this any easier to hear. "Where is Sherlock?" he demanded. "And Mycroft, what have you done with them?"

"They're fine." Sticking his hands into his pockets, Moriarty shrugged casually. "It was pretty easy in the end, for all of their intelligence. They wandered right into my trap. All I had to do was set up a bit of a distraction and voila - like big, stupid alphas to an omega's heat." His smirk only grew wider. "I had thought better of Sherlock, really."

"Where. Are. They?" John repeated through gritted teeth.

"Not a worry, you'll soon see them in person. Though not for long. You two are quite old, and you're damaged, and the inspector over there has a good sight more silver in him than I'd like, but I'm sure I can find buyers for you."

"Oh," Molly breathed suddenly, and it was evident that she had figured something out. She shifted out from behind John, looking horrified. "Jim, you don't - oh, you _couldn't_."

"You always were smarter than they gave you credit for," Moriarty said with an approving nod. "Yes, that's right. Jim Moriarty, Consulting Shopper. Dear Jim, won't you find a nice omega for me? Oh Jim, I need an omega in their twenties with blond hair." He pitched his voice high, as though emulating a woman's voice. "It's amazing what people will pay for, given the right price. All they have to do is give me their description and I -"

"Go out and find the omega," John filled in, revolted. It made a disgusting amount of sense, and certainly explained all of the omegas who had gone missing. "But - you can't. Those omegas were _bonded_."

"Did you know that there are not nearly enough omegas for all of the alphas and betas who want them?" Moriarty replied. He never lost his smirk. He was enjoying this. "Who wouldn't want a submissive little creature to fuck mindlessly every three months or more? One who listens to their every command? That's where I come in. You see, Johnny, it turns out that bonds can be broken, and quite easily too. All it takes is a special treatment that I just so happened to have developed." He examined his nails idly. "I can take any omega I want."

Jesus fucking Christ, John thought, and for a moment he was too speechless to do anything but stare. This was almost worse than murder in a way, because he was sending those poor omegas to a life of hell. Most of them would never fight back, not if they were anything like Lucy Drebber had been. He wondered if that explained the ones who had turned up dead, if they were the ones who had fought the dissolution of their bond or refused the new bond or ignored a new alpha. Had Lestrade and Sherlock thought to check for that? Turned omegas versus born ones? Probably not. What Moriarty was doing was the sort of sin that most werewolves would never have imagined, much less put into practice.

"You can't do this," he said at last, knowing the words were useless even as he spoke.

"Actually, I think you'll find I can. I've been doing it for years and no one has stopped me yet. Sherlock tried, of course, but even he failed miserably and now he'll get to see how it all works first hand!" Moriarty grinned, and two more men stepped into the flat with guns. John's heart sank as Moriarty added, "You know, there'll be no sign at all of the first alpha's bond after my treatment has been administered, and I'm sure there'll be someone who will take you two off of my hands. The treatment is quite painful, I hear. You'll have to let me know if that's true."


	53. Chapter 53

What could he do? The knowledge that the answer to that question was, currently, nothing burned a cold knot into John’s stomach. Clad only the quilt that Molly had draped around his shoulders when the change finished that morning, he sat in the back of a car in between Molly and Greg and wondered where they were being taken. The car was large enough to comfortably fit the three of them, Moriarty, Moran, and at least two other guards, all of whom, with the exception of Moriarty, held guns. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that attacking them would go over well, but the idea of just allowing them to be taken where Moriarty wanted was appalling.

Beside him, Molly was sniffing in a valiant attempt to hold back tears. She had not been allowed to dress either, and one of the guards was spending an alarming amount of time eyeing her up. If she noticed she hadn't reacted, but John glared at him every time he caught the man at it. Molly was not bonded but she was a beta, which meant that Moriarty shouldn't have been interested in her. But because she’d been there with Greg and John she had been pulled into this mess, and God only knew where she was going to end up as a result. John clenched his free hand into a fist and vowed to make it up to her someday. She'd slipped one of her hands into his after they got into the car, and he could feel her fingers trembling. She was afraid.

"You know that someone is going to stop you," he said out loud, staring determinedly at the window. He sensed that Greg was awake now, though the man had the sense to pretend that he was still unconscious. In spite of what Sherlock said, Greg was actually a pretty intelligent detective: hopefully he had sussed up the situation enough to know what was going on, even if he wouldn't understand the particulars. There was a large part of John that prayed Greg never had to learn what Moriarty had planned for them.

"Oh, really? Do tell, Johnny boy. Who exactly is going to stop me?" Moriarty looked amused. He was enjoying this far too much for John’s tastes. "As I recall, your alpha wasn't smart enough to do it. He walked right into my trap. And I sincerely hope that _you're_ not suggesting that you'll be the one to do it." He gave a derisive laugh and John couldn't help flushing in anger. Molly's hand squeezed tight around his, just once: a silent warning, and in spite of how much John wanted to lunge forward and punch Moriarty in his smirking face he subsided.

The car pulled up in front of a warehouse on the outskirts of London. The air smelled like rotting fish and rank oil as they climbed out, and John shuddered inwardly. He was trying not to think about what was waiting for them, but that was easier said than done. Every part of him was rebelling at the idea of being forcibly separated from Sherlock, and he knew that he would fight the dissolution of the bond with everything that he was, never mind the formation of a new one. He would never agree to any alpha except for that wonderful, exasperating, stubborn, brilliant consulting detective. But he was not at all sure that he was going to have a choice in the matter.

They were taken inside, and as soon as the doors were shut Molly was separated from them. John's last glimpse of her was of her wide and frightened eyes, and he fought to keep from snarling as he and Greg were shoved roughly down another long hall. They emerged into a room, one of the guards opening the door ahead of them, and it was like walking into wall. The familiar scent surrounded John, sweet and soft and comforting and he could feel tension draining from his muscles, but underneath it all was the current of something bitter and sharp and hollow: fear. It lingered on the back of his tongue when he swallowed and he exhaled, already knowing what he was going to see before he looked around.

Sherlock was snarling, there was no other word for it. He was standing in a cell on the other side of the room, his hands locked around the bars. "Moriarty." He spoke the name like it was something vile, the worst sort of curse that he could come up with.

"Hello, Sherlock," Moriarty greeted with a smirk. "As you can see, my little plan worked out quite well. Just as I told you it would."

"Mycroft," Greg whispered. The word sounded pained, and John tore his eyes away from his alpha long enough to see that Mycroft was there too in the cell beside Sherlock. Mycroft was standing before the bars, and John suspected that it was only sheer will that kept Mycroft from clinging to them just as tightly as Sherlock was.

"I thought that it would be fitting for you to see what's going to happen," Moriarty went on as though Greg had not spoken. He sauntered over to the far side of the room and the large silver refrigerator that was stationed against the wall. John watched as he opened the door and pulled out a tray. It was covered in gleaming vials, each filled with a brilliant green liquid. He set the tray down on a table and ran his fingers over the vials with a grin. "Beautiful, aren't they? To have the power to create and destroy bonds at my whim..." He selected a vial and held it up, angling it so that the contents inside caught the light and reflected.

"You're a sin against nature," Mycroft said. His voice was low and deep with the hint of a growl.

Moriarty laughed. "Yes, I am, aren't I?" he said, sounding ridiculously pleased with the accusation. "Come now, boys. If you don't want to watch, you don't have to. But I thought you would want to be here to watch your puppies go into heat."

"What?" John croaked. It wasn't nearly time for his heat, not yet. 

"Oh, did I forget to mention?" Moriarty's grin was wicked. "That's part of the treatment. It dissolves your old bond while sending you into heat, leaving you primed for the next alpha. That's when bonds are formed most easily, after all. I haven't got anyone for you two yet, but I think my loyal men could use some fun with a couple of omegas. They're all betas, so not to worry - you won't be bonded until the right alpha comes along."

John thought he might be sick. He vividly remembered his heat, the agony of burning emptiness that had taken over until he could only buck incoherently against Sherlock and beg to be filled. He would be able to fight it at first, but eventually the desire would win him over and he would gladly take anyone who offered. Would he be able to hold onto the bond while the flush of heat was gradually taking over his mind and body? He was no longer certain, and judging from the horrified look on Sherlock's face he did not want to find out.


	54. Chapter 54

Sherlock had never considered himself to be an overly violent person. But as he stood there and watched as Moran forced John into a set of handcuffs at gun point, he thought he could have easily torn Moran's head off with his bare hands. John was putting on an excellent front, but it was easy to tell that he was terrified. His breathing was just a little too fast, and his hands were trembling - not much, but enough that Sherlock noticed. He winced as Moran cuffed his arms behind him and sat down quietly when directed to after one of the other guards pointed a gun in Greg's face, but he never took his eyes off of Moran's gun. No doubt he was trying to plan the best way to do something about it. Sherlock could have told him that it was pointless. Moriarty was just waiting for them to try. 

"And now, the pièce de résistance," Moriarty said softly as soon as Greg and John had both been secured. He picked up one of the vials and easily popped the end off, replacing it with a needle. John squirmed as Moriarty crouched down beside him and roughly jerked his sleeve up his arm, revealing a lightly tanned arm. "You might as well hold still, Johnny. It will just be that much more painful for you if you don't. Of course, if you really _want_ it to be painful..." He trailed off meaningfully and smirked again as he stabbed the needle into John's flesh. He looked at Sherlock as he pressed the plunger down.

Swearing had never been Sherlock's thing either, but he felt like cursing up a storm as he watched the green liquid disappear into John's body. John remained still until it was gone and Moriarty had moved on to Greg. His breathing began to slow and his eyes grew heavily lidded, and he ducked his head and stared at the ground like it was utterly fascinating. Sherlock was tempted to kick the bars. How long would it take before the serum took over completely? An hour? Two? How long before John's heat overcame him completely? How long before he had to stand here and watch as John was raped repeatedly by betas that had no business in touching what didn't belong to them?

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, strained. Sherlock blinked at the sound of his brother's voice and realized that he had wrapped his fingers around the bars again. He was straining so hard against them that the metal was actually shivering in his grip, though it had not yet moved. His hands, however, were aching something fierce.

"Do something," Sherlock hissed desperately. He still couldn't believe that both he and Mycroft had been captured by Moriarty. Why hadn't he realized that the call Mycroft had received was a fake designed to lure them in? He'd been so arrogant, believing that Moriarty was nothing to truly be concerned about. And now he was going to lose John over it.

"That should do it," Moriarty announced, springing back to his feet and discarding the two used vials. Greg was slumped against John, his head tilted back and lips parted. Moriarty leaned down and rubbed his thumb roughly over Greg's bottom lip, and Mycroft gave a threatening growl. "Pity I don't like old men, or I'd use you myself. Fortunately, I've got lots of men who will do you just lovely. I'll leave you four alone so that you can think about what's coming. Literally." He giggled as he strolled out of the room with Moran on his heels.

Of course, "alone" in Moriarty's case meant that he left behind four armed guards to watch over them. Sherlock glared at them before he glanced back at John. Already he thought he could sense John's scent changing, the pheromone levels spiking, though that was impossible. He doubted it could happen that quickly. But it probably wouldn't take very long. He estimated that they liked had about four hours before John and Greg went into heat, and maybe another four beyond that before the two omegas lost control completely. It was biology, pure and simple, and not even someone with as much determination and fortitude as John Watson would be able to fight against that.

Once again, he looked over at Mycroft. He didn't need to speak. His pleading was written all over his face. _Please fix this._

_I want to,_ Mycroft's expression said. His big brother was looking as desperate as Sherlock felt. He shook his head lightly. _But I'm not sure how._

"Sherlock," John said suddenly. He lifted his head. It seemed to take a lot of effort. He looked from the guards at the far end of the room to Sherlock and then back again. None of them moved or protested when John shifted onto his knees and began to painstakingly crawl the short distance to Sherlock's cell. Over John's head, Sherlock caught a brief glimpse of Greg shuffling awkwardly over to Mycroft before he returned all of his attention to John.

"John," he said, crouching down and stretching an arm through the bars. His fingers grazed John's hair, and John whimpered. It was a pitiful sound, and it only made the fury and terror burning through Sherlock blaze that much harder. Anyone who touched John would suffer, Sherlock would make certain of that.

"Do you have a plan?" John asked.

"Yes."

John knew it was a lie. He closed his eyes and leaned against the comforting weight of Sherlock's hand. "I don't want the bond to dissolve," he murmured. It took a lot for him to be able to admit that, but it was the truth. He hadn't thought that he would ever find an alpha like Sherlock, hadn't even realized he wanted one. 

"I don't either." Sherlock's throat was impossibly tight when he tried to swallow. He'd always scorned the alphas who made such a big production about their omegas. For the first time, he was actually feeling compassionate for the poor bastards who'd had their omegas taken from them. He didn't want to lose John. His thoughts spun in useless circles. Did Mycroft have a plan? Would someone notice their absence and figure out what was going on? What would they do if any help came too late? "It will be alright."

A small smile quirked John's lips. "Sherlock, if something happens - I want you to look after Molly."

"Molly?" 

"She's a good person."

"You can take care of her yourself," Sherlock said, watching as John drifted off into sleep. It wasn't a natural sleep, but instead one borne from the drugs, and he knew it meant the clock was ticking. They had to do something before it ran out.


	55. Chapter 55

In spite of the fact that she had, apparently, been dating a psychopath for several weeks without knowing about it, Molly Hooper was no one's fool. She saw the look on John's face as she was dragged away, and she knew what it meant for all three of them. John was not expecting to see her again, but he was prepared to stare a fate worse than death in the eyes and go down fighting. And as the guards roughly pulled Molly away from him, she felt a strange sort of calm settle over her. The blind fear that had been taking over her mind began to fade away, replaced by the certainty that she had to do _something_ to put a stop to this horrible game that Jim Moriarty was playing.

From the moment that she’d been turned, Molly had been taught that there were certain things that a werewolf did not do. The punishment for interfering with bonds, regardless of whether said bond was a sacred one between an alpha and a omega or a more common one between betas, was one of the first things that had been explained to her. No one was permitted to do the sort of things that Moriarty wanted to do, and just the thought of the bleak desperation in John's face as he was led away made raw anger take the place of her fear. She was docile beneath the hands of the guards as they pushed her none too gently down the hall, but inwardly her mind was working furiously.

This was not right. She had to do something to help fix it. She'd allowed Moriarty to play her, and in the process had granted him far too much access to Sherlock. God only knew what sort of twisted things Moriarty had learned while he was hanging around in the lab, ostensibly because he thought it was sexy to watch her working but really because he wanted to spy on Sherlock. Molly had harboured hopes for a long time, even while she was dating Moriarty, that Sherlock might decide she was worthy. Now she knew that would never happen, but it had done nothing to lessen the strength of her loyalty towards Sherlock Holmes. She'd doted on the man, she cared for him and John and Greg and even Sherlock's brother even if the lot of them were all idiots, and she wanted to help them.

The looming question was how? 

Answer: getting back to them would be a decent start.

"Oh," Molly said suddenly, and she pretended that her knees had gone weak. As predicted, the alpha guard who had been walking to her right immediately crowded close with a possessively placed hand on her arm. Molly lowered her head and looked up at him through her fringe, pretending that she was overcome by a wave of shyness instead of loathing. "I'm sorry. I'm just - the change was last night and I felt frightfully weak just now. My gram used to tell me that my blood sugar was just awful the morning after the moon. Do you think I could have something to eat?"

"Boss says no food," the alpha on her left said.

"I see." That didn't really surprise her. Even while they were dating, Jim hadn't really been one for what he considered to be cheap thrills. He hadn't even bought her flowers for their one month anniversary. "But - I know we were supposed to have some fun. I can't very well do that if I'm too exhausted to stay awake, can I?" She reached out and fingered his collar, batting her lashes coyly.

Molly was no omega, but she _was_ a woman and she had spent years learning how to put the best of her charms to good use - regardless of whether they’d ever had an effect on Sherlock Holmes. She was all too aware that she was only dressed in a sheet, which did little to hide her curves. She clutched the sheet tighter against her chest and gave her best, most innocent smile. No matter what Sherlock said about her mouth being too small, all it took to get the alpha to agree was some deliberate sucking on her bottom lip. Both of them were completely mesmerized.

And then she got to watch as a bullet took the alpha's head apart.

"Code red!" the other alpha blurted, looking around in a dazed way and grabbing for a radio. "Code -" Whatever else he was going to say dissolved into a bloody gurgle as a neat, round hole appeared in his throat. Molly backed up a step, stunned, watching as the alpha's body crumbled to the ground. She stared down at him for nearly a minute as he bled out, the thick crimson liquid staining her feet and the bottom of the sheet.

"Miss Hooper?"

The speaker was a woman - a lush woman, with dark curling hair like silken ribbons, and dark eyes and a wicked smile. Molly swallowed hard. "Yes?"

"My name is Anthea. I've been instructed to escort you from the building immediately."

"You've come to help," Molly guessed, glancing down at the two bodies lying before her. She knew that Sherlock's brother was some bloke in the government - should have guessed that he would have people coming to help. It should've been a relief - should have, but wasn't. Moriarty might have done a good job of pulling the wool over her eyes, but there were some things that he had not managed to hide from her. Molly had always been aware of the fact that Jim was smarter than he let on, not to mention far more dangerous. She looked back up at Anthea.

"That's correct. As we speak, operatives are closing in on Mr Holmes, the younger Holmes, Doctor Watson and Inspector Lestrade." Anthea moved closer, sensing that Molly was not frightened of her. As soon as she was close enough for her scent to get by the pungent smell of blood, Molly recognized her as a beta. 

"And you want me to leave." A grim smile crossed her face. "I can't do that."

"Miss Hooper -"

"No, look, I'm sorry. I realize I've probably messed this up, I'm probably still messing it up, but I can't leave without knowing John and Sherlock are okay. I helped to cause this, you see." She dug her nails into the soft flesh of her palms, remembering how _easily_ Moriarty had coaxed her into believing his lies. He'd been so smooth, and she had been so desperate. "Please, I want to help. Isn't there anything that I can do?"

Anthea studied her for a long minute. 

Molly looked back resolutely, refusing to back down.

At last, that gorgeous mouth curled into a devious smile. "Very well, Miss Hooper."

"Call me Molly," Molly said impulsively. 

"Molly," Anthea repeated softly, and once again Molly felt faint, though this time it was for an entirely different reason altogether.


	56. Chapter 56

Molly Hooper was never a person that Sherlock had given much thought to. She had always been there in the background, of course: a flighty, love struck girl who would do everything that he asked just for the hope of being on the receiving end of one of his (largely insincere) smiles. They had never talked outside of the morgue, and beyond the basics - she was young, a werewolf, a beta, and had crap taste in men - he had never stopped to consider her beyond the realization that she was easily manipulated and had a job that benefited him in numerous ways. That had been the sum of their so-called relationship for the past five or so years, and Sherlock had never seen any indication that it needed to change.

Until now.

Sherlock was not surprised when the door was busted open and four excellently targeted bullets took down the guards in the room. But he _was_ stunned when Anthea stepped through the door with Molly Hooper on her arm. Molly was wearing a loose blouse that did not fit her well and a pair of jeans that were too tight - or perhaps not tight enough, judging by Anthea's openly appreciative eye. If Molly noticed the attention, she didn't acknowledge it. All of her concentration was focused on John and Greg, and she looked about two seconds from bursting into tears as she dashed across the room to fall to her knees beside John. She wasn't stupid enough to reach out and touch him when Sherlock was right there and his alpha instincts were already going haywire, but it was a near thing. Fortunately a low, threatening growl was all that it took to make her back off.

"Good lord, _John_ ," she said in a horrified tone, sitting back on her heels at a slightly safer distance. "Sherlock, what did they do to him?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed, familiar rage pulsing through him at having to speak the name. He wanted to find Jim Moriarty and snap the man's neck. He wanted to pin John down and fuck his omega silly. John's heat was coming on faster than he had anticipated, and the pheromones were making his skin itch with desire. At this rate, by the time that John and Greg woke up they would already be in full heat. If that was the case, they wouldn't have any chance of holding onto the bond. It would be dissolved long before they had the opportunity to do anything about it. Sherlock needed to fuck his omega and reaffirm his claim before that could happen, and he ground his teeth at the realization that he would have to wait.

Molly looked at him cautiously, her eyes flicking between the two of them. "Anthea's going to get you out," she said quietly. "Then you could go - you know." Her cheeks flushed pink.

"No." It was a nice thought, but Sherlock would not be able to rest until he had Jim Moriarty's blood on his hands. Literally. 

"For once, I am inclined to agree with you," Mycroft said. The only sign that he was relieved was the visible loss of tension in his shoulders. He had yet to release his grasp on Greg's hand. "Anthea, my dear, if you please?"

Anthea's smile was quick and dangerous. "Of course," she said simply, removing something from her pocket. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was, but he enjoyed the results: Anthea pressed her hand briefly to the electronic locks on both cages and then stepped away, gently hauling Molly back by the elbow as she went. There was a brief pause and then a high-pitched crackling, a small explosion and the strong smell of sulphur. The door swung open a second later and Sherlock barrelled out, ignoring everyone in favour of his omega.

Oh god. There were no words to describe how it felt to pick John up in his arms after several hours of psychological torture that'd had more effect than he wanted to let on. Moriarty had taunted him with what it was going to be like to watch as John was raped repeatedly, to know that while John's body would be begging for it his mind would be tearing under the strain, possibly even breaking, to smell the thick, gorgeous, sweet heat and be unable to do anything about it. Sherlock clutched John against him, noting that even while unconscious John still whimpered and clung to him, pressing his face against Sherlock's throat where his scent would be the strongest. A low, comforting growl rumbled Sherlock's chest and he pressed his head against the top of John's hair. 

He had nearly lost this.

"Sir, we think that Moriarty may be headed for the roof," Anthea said apologetically. She was deliberately not looking at her boss as he cradled Greg in his arms. For once, Mycroft Holmes's carefully planned exterior had been broken. It was a victory no one seemed to be inclined to enjoy.

"Right," Mycroft said, and his voice was unsteady. "Yes." And then he paused, like he wasn't sure what was supposed to come next. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the thick, unpleasant sound of blood sliding across the floor.

"I'll take them," Molly volunteered. Her tiny but determined voice split the quiet just as it was on this side of becoming awkward. "I'll stay with them. You know I won't do anything, and Jim will have to - he'll need to go through me." She set her jaw, a stubborn light burning in her brown eyes, and the familiar way with which she said Moriarty's name made Sherlock realize that there was more to Molly and her story than he'd thought.

Mycroft looked at her for a long moment, longer than Sherlock had ever seen his brother look at anyone without trying to will them into submission, and then he nodded. "Thank you, Miss Hooper. Come along, Sherlock."

An automatic protest rose to Sherlock's lips - well, in reality it was more of a wordless snarl that would not need any translation. He had to force himself to release John, particularly when John made a soft, whimpering sound and tried to hold on. The fact that Molly was watching him with sympathy in her face did not help. Sherlock stood and stepped back, wishing that he had his coat. He would have wrapped it around John to make him feel better about the separation. But it had been taken from him by Moriarty, and it was just one more thing that the man was going to pay for.


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an auction going on to support AO3. You can bid on the author of your choice and win a fic written by them especially for you based on whatever prompt you want (within reason), and I'm participating as an author. Click on this link for more information: [AO3 Tumblr Auction](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/FAQ)

The building where Moriarty brought them only had three floors, plus the basement and the roof. Sherlock had already deduced that they were being held on the second floor, which meant that there was one floor standing between him and Moriarty. As soon as he was out of the room where John was, he broke into a run towards the staircases at the end of the hall. Much to his surprise, Mycroft matched his pace easily, with Anthea and several armed guards right behind them.

"I've got reports that the rest of the building has been searched," Anthea said as they ran, one of her fingers pressed against her earpiece. She paused briefly, listening intently. "All of Moriarty's men have been captured or dealt with, sir. Johnson is saying that they have all of the exits on the roof covered. Moriarty is reportedly on the roof, and he appears to be just standing there. Colonel Sebastian Moran is with him. We believe that both of them may be armed."

There was no "may" about it. Moran was an excellent sniper, and there was no way he would've gone up there without at least one gun. Sherlock jerked the door of the staircase open and took them two at a time, bypassing the door for the third floor entirely. The steps grew narrower after that, forcing them to ascend single file. At the top, he found three of Mycroft's men, all of them wearing black bullet-proof clothing, manning the door. But instead of getting out of his way, one of them reached out to stop his progress.

"My apologies, sir, but I can't allow you to go out there," he said calmly. His scent was contained, rational: a beta. Likely a good thing, because Sherlock wasn't sure he could have stopped himself from tearing into any alpha that challenged him just then. "No threats have been made, but there is a good chance that anyone who steps through that door is going to be shot."

Sherlock eyed him, automatically noting the base details: he had a small dog, two children, and a wife that had left him for another lover just three weeks ago. He was young, in his late twenties, and he'd had a beer for breakfast. "Get out of my way," he said shortly, leaning closer in an attempt at intimidation. It wasn't working.

"Sherlock." Mycroft came up behind him, breathing slightly heavier for the race up the staircase, and gripped his younger brother's arm. 

"I'm not staying in here, Mycroft. You know as well as I do that Moriarty is not going to give in until he has the chance to lord this over us one last time," Sherlock hissed. 

"Yes, I do, but I also recognize that you need to _calm down_." There was an underlying hint of urgency to Mycroft's voice that caught Sherlock's attention. He stared at his brother with narrowed eyes, realizing that his heart was pounding - and it was not just from the run. He felt clammy, his hands shaking slightly, and he knew what it was: fear. He was terrified that they would not deal with Moriarty in time. Was it clouding his judgement? He looked away.

Mycroft relaxed slightly. "Your plan?" he asked, turning to glance at Anthea.

She was standing on the stair right below him. "We have vests," she said, making a motion with her hand. One of the men turned away for a moment, and when he came back he had two more bullet proof vests in his hands. Sherlock looked at them distastefully, but he took one of them and slipped the garment on. It felt bulky and awkward and offered no protection to their heads, but any little bit might help.

"You will wait here," Mycroft said once they were both prepared. He nodded to Sherlock. "Do not interfere unless there are shots fired."

Anthea did not look pleased by the orders, but she didn't protest. She did slip the two guns she was wearing at her waist out of their holsters and hand them over, one to Sherlock and one to Mycroft. The gun felt heavy and strange in Sherlock's hand. He wasn't used to this, but he held it tightly anyway. He'd been dreaming about killing Moriarty, and the gun might turn out to be his only way to do so. He turned towards the door and this time, the one who had stopped him reached out and opened it.

Moriarty was indeed standing right in the middle of the roof, a sitting duck for any sniper that might have scaled the buildings opposite them. But if he had thought of that possibility - and unquestionably, he had - he did not seem to be overly concerned by it. Moran was a sulking shadow less than five feet away, eyes alert and watching the two brothers intently as they stepped out onto the roof. He did not reach for a gun, though, and Sherlock suspected that he was under similar orders to not interfere unless necessary. Moriarty would want to toy with them for as long as possible.

"Ah, Sherlock," the madman said, spreading his arms wide. "You and your little friends, you never fail to disappoint. I should've known better than to toss Molly Hooper aside like that. She was such a pretty little thing, always so desperate for approval."

Sherlock tensed, an automatic growl rising in his chest, not liking the way Moriarty spoke Molly's name with so much familiarity. "You do realize that you've lost," he said, raising an eyebrow. "It's over, Jim."

"You might think so, but that's what I like about you. The big pictures always passes you by." Moriarty chuckled softly. "But then, I suppose that's what you keep your big brother around for. Tell me, do you like running to him for protection every time something goes wrong?"

The taunt was designed to make him angry, and normally it would've worked. Sherlock did not appreciate anyone trying to imply that he depended on Mycroft. But in this case, he could feel Mycroft hovering only steps behind him and it actually served to calm him down. "For John, that is something I am willing to do."

Moriarty's face darkened abruptly. "For John," he spat. "For that ridiculous little omega. It's pathetic, Sherlock. I had expected better of you. Of both of you." His glare included Mycroft. "If you wanted someone to fuck that badly, you could've at least chosen someone who was worth it. That broken pet of yours is nothing more than a toy that you'll grow tired of, and then what will you do? Tied down to something that can never truly appreciate your genius?"

It was subtle, but Sherlock still saw it. The way Moran flinched slightly: Moriarty's comments had struck a hidden nerve, one that Moran had probably worried about all this time, one that Moriarty didn't even know about. And in that split second when Moran was off guard and Moriarty was laughing and Sherlock was so furious he was shaking with the strength of it, he dropped his gun and launched himself forward. Moriarty's face changed into a delicious mask of shock as Sherlock crashed into him, the momentum sending them both staggering backwards and off the side of the roof.


	58. Chapter 58

The guards who had been left behind to look after Molly, John and Greg didn't really pay much attention to them. Well, that wasn't completely true: they backed off and started pointedly ignoring them after Molly growled at one of them for trying to get too close to Greg. She might have only been a beta, but she had spent years learning how to be intimidating when it was necessary. Besides, it was for their own safety: if - _when_ Sherlock and Mycroft returned, they could easily go mad with rage at even the slightest hint of an alpha's scent around their respective omegas. And Molly did not want to see any more men die right in front of her, regardless of whether she knew them or not. She watched in satisfaction as the alpha backed off, hands raised in a placating gesture, and only relaxed when the four of them made it clear they were going to keep their distance.

She returned her attention to John and removed the cloth on his forehead, dipping it into the bowl of cold water at her side. It was deemed to be too dangerous to risk moving them until the guards were certain Moriarty and Moran had been neutralized, so Molly was stuck trying to offer the best aid she could in a room that offered very little in the way of supplies. She'd managed to convince one of the guards to fetch her water and a couple of cloths, and now she was alternately dipping each cloth into the bowl, ringing it out, and lying it across their foreheads. The temperature of both men had risen high enough to concern her - all a part of Moriarty's plan, no doubt.

Not for the first time, she wondered how she could have been so stupid. But Jim had seemed so _nice_. He'd complimented her hair and her figure, and he'd never told her that her lips were too small or that her bra didn't properly support her breasts. He hadn't thought she was a freak for thoroughly enjoying a job where she spent the day dissecting dead bodies. And now, of course, she knew why: it was because he was probably responsible for having put a fair percentage of those dead bodies on her table. Molly suppressed a shiver at the thought and moved on to dampening Greg's cloth. She wiped the sweat from his brow before placing the cloth across the flushed skin. As she pressed it into place, she realized that his eyes were open.

"Inspector Lestrade?" she asked timidly, shifting until she could kneel over him and get a proper look. "Greg? Can you hear me? It's - it's Molly Hooper. You, um, came to ask me some questions at the morgue? And then you stayed at my flat for the night?" She hated the way her sentences crept up at the end, turning them into questions, but in this case it didn't really matter. Greg was not paying attention. His brown eyes were glazed and distant, not focusing on anything. She sighed and sat back on her heels.

"Mycroft," he mumbled then, the word faint.

Molly looked at him, realizing that perhaps he was concentrating harder than she'd realized. They were _fighting_ , she thought with a flash of awe. That was the kind of strength she had always admired. Perhaps, if Mycroft and Sherlock could move fast enough - things might turn out to be alright after all. With a slightly lightened heart, she reapplied herself to changing their cloths. It made her feel good to see that over the next ten or fifteen minutes, Greg occasionally seemed a little more coherent, even if he never said anything more than Mycroft's name. Once, for about five seconds, he even looked directly at her. It made her heart leap into her throat so hard she made an unattractive stuttering sound, and then before she could get anything else out he'd drifted away again.

Still, it was progress.

John, on the other hand, was not responding at all. If anything, he seemed to be getting worse. He was steadily losing the colour in his face and she could feel that his pulse was getting weak. Not good. "Oi," Molly said loudly, attracting the attention of the guards. "We've got to move out. Now."

"We're under strict orders to stay put," said the alpha guard.

"But -"

"It's our job to protect you," he went on with a little smile. "So why don't you just keep playing nurse and let us do our jobs?"

Flustered by his condescension, she actually fell silent. He nodded at her, as though to say 'good on', before turning to chat with his buddies. Molly looked back down at John, feeling her temper spark. Her mother had always said that she had been born with a touch of the redheaded Hooper temper, and when pushed Molly could prove it. Normally she would've backed down rather than provoke an argument, but she could not in good faith allow John to die here. That wasn't fair to Sherlock, because she had promised that she would take care of John and Greg. It wasn't fair to John, either, not when he was trying so hard to hold on. 

It would mean breaking her word, and Molly Hooper never broke her word unless she absolutely had to.

"Excuse me," she said firmly. "In this case, protecting us means getting this omega the best possible care. I realize that we're in a dangerous situation, but John needs a doctor. Now you can certainly stand there and continue to ignore me, but that will also mean explaining to Sherlock Holmes why you let his omega die." And then, just because the alpha had really pissed her off with that little patronizing smile, she added, "And explaining to Mycroft Holmes why you let his baby brother's omega die."

Really, it was astonishing how fast men could move when they were suitably threatened. Molly would have to begin using Mycroft's name more often. In less than thirty seconds, the hallway outside had been secured and two betas had carefully picked John and Greg up for the move. The third beta took the lead, followed by Molly and then Greg and John, leaving the alpha to bring up the rear. Molly's heart was pounding hard as they navigated their way down, taking every possible precaution, but she also felt surprisingly clear-headed and focused. She had a job to do and she was going to do it, god damn it, and no one was going to stop her - 

They exited the building just in time to see all of the guards outside look up.

Instinctively Molly followed their gaze, and her heart stopped so suddenly it hurt.

Less than a minute after the two bodies fell from the roof, John Watson jerked awake and cried out in agony, "Sherlock!"


	59. Chapter 59

The way of the Holmes family was to always remain as in control as possible. Sentiment was never supposed to get the better of them. That was the reason why, even as Sherlock plunged over the side of the roof with Moriarty, Mycroft kept his composure. Instead of sprinting to the edge of the roof and screaming his brother's name the way he wanted to, he drew the gun that Anthea had pushed into his hand and pointed it at a shocked Moran. More specifically, at a very important part of Moran's anatomy that any man would be disinclined to have threatened.

"Do not move," he said steadily, or at least he believed his voice was steady: it was possible that there might have been a _slight_ inflection audible, as Moran turned an interesting shade of grey and started to sweat.

Down below, from the ground, John Watson's terrified voice rang out: "Sherlock!"

Mycroft flinched, and his grip on the gun grew marginally less firm. The weapon trembled faintly in his grip, and his finger tightened just a little bit on the trigger. He entertained the thought of what it might feel like to give the gun a firm squeeze. It would recoil, he knew, and leave the unpleasant smell of gun powder and blood all over his clothing and skin. But that would be a small price to pay to know that the last of Moriarty's truly dangerous men were out of commission. 

"Sir!" Behind him, the door swung open. Anthea and several operatives swarmed the rooftop all at once. In less than ten seconds, Moran was surrounded. Instead of protesting the arrest, Moran actually looked a little relieved. He kept darting nervous looks in Mycroft's direction as he was stripped of his weapons and his hands were cuffed behind his back.

"Sir," Anthea said again, and then there were gentle fingers prying at the gun. Mycroft allowed her to take it, not caring anymore as he turned on his heel and sprinted blindly towards the door. 

He'd just turned seven when his baby brother had been brought home from the hospital for the first time. He'd been sorely unimpressed with the dull little creature who couldn't do anything other than sleep, poo and cry. Still, Sherlock had belonged to him from that second on, and over time Sherlock had grown to be fascinating. The thought that his little brother might be lying on the pavement bleeding out was nearly more than Mycroft could withstand. He'd always tried to impress that caring was not an advantage on his brother, and as he half-ran half-fell down the stairs he was reminded all over again of just how true that was proving to be.

He threw the door open and rushed out, focusing immediately on the two bodies that were sprawled on the cold ground not twenty feet away. He vaguely registered Molly Hooper, staring at them all with distraught fascination as she tried in vain to comfort a delirious John Watson, but disregarded her as he launched himself forward. As he grew closer, the details of the scenes came into such sharp focus that he knew they would forever be burned into his mind. He would never be able to forget the sight of Sherlock on his back, head tilted lifelessly, eyes shut and arms flung out in a way that was chillingly empty. Moriarty was not a foot away, head tilted at such an unnatural angle that Mycroft knew he was dead.

"Sherlock," he breathed hoarsely, dropping to his knees. Up close, he couldn't tell whether or not Sherlock's chest was moving. He reached for Sherlock's throat and groped desperately for a pulse. For a moment of terror, his own heart was pounding so hard he could not feel anything.

But then... oh yes, there. The relief was so sharp that Mycroft felt like a popped balloon. He sagged downwards, bracing himself with his free arm, and stared dumbly at Sherlock's slack face. It was the first time in his life that he could honestly say he did not know what to do. The feeling was not a good one. All he felt capable of was keeping his fingers pressed firmly against that precious little spot where life fluttered weakly beneath the skin, as though he could keep Sherlock alive by sheer force of will so long as he did not let go.

"The ambulance is coming." Anthea was standing at his shoulder suddenly, leaning down just far enough that it lent an air of intimacy to their conversation. The familiar sound of her voice helped to ground him in the present and he rolled his shoulders back, cocking his head to show he was listening as she added, "Moran and the rest of the guards have been safely secured. We've had two fatalities, four serious injuries and some minor wounds."

Mycroft nodded, just once, incapable of speech. He remained where he was until he heard the sound of sirens, followed by flashing lights and ambulances that screeched to a stop a few feet away. Even when there were paramedics surrounding them, he still had a difficult time actually removing his fingers from Sherlock's throat. It was illogical, but he could not help feeling that if he let go it might stop Sherlock's heart from beating. His hand flailed, useless, and then Anthea reached down and gripped it, solid and warm. She pulled him to his feet.

"They go in the same one," he said, and she nodded before giving a series of sharply voiced directions to the paramedics. It was gratifying to see Sherlock and John being loaded into the same ambulance seconds later. Molly climbed in after them.

"He's waiting for you," Anthea told him, indicating the second ambulance. 

"Right," Mycroft said, knowing that she meant Greg. There was just one more thing that he needed to do before he could tend to his omega. He reached for her hip and the gun he knew was there, and although Anthea tensed beneath his touch she did not move away. The gun was at once familiar and foreign, the metal warm from the heat of her body.

"Sir," Anthea said.

He silenced her with a quick, warning squeeze and pivoted to face his target. He hefted the gun and fired a bullet directly between the eyes of James Moriarty, watching with no emotion as the corpse twitched from the blast. Only once it had gone still did he hand the gun back. "Just making sure," he told her, and then went to get into the ambulance.


	60. Chapter 60

John Watson woke up to the feeling of someone kneeling on top of him.

His reaction was instinctive: he brought his leg up and kneed whoever it was in the buttocks as hard as he could. The man let out a surprised grunt and, losing his balance, came down hard on top of John. He might have tried to struggle more, but for the fact that every single one of his senses was suddenly infused with the scent of his alpha. _Sherlock_ , his mind was screaming. It was Sherlock who was hovering over him, knees planted squarely on either side of John's hips and elbows now folded awkwardly alongside of John's head as Sherlock fought to regain his balance on the rather small bed. John took a deep breath and went completely limp, eyes half-shut in bliss, until Sherlock had got back up on his hands and could stare down at him.

Sherlock said, "You never cease to surprise me."

Weak, watery laughter was the only response that John could come up with. Now that he knew his 'attacker' was just Sherlock, he was conscious of the fact that he was exhausted. His limbs felt strangely weak in a way that he had not felt for a long time, not since fever had taken him down after his return from Afghanistan. What's more, their bond didn't feel nearly as strong as it had when he'd passed out. It was flimsy now, so uncertain that John hadn't even been aware Sherlock was in the room with him until the detective was literally right on top of him. The only thing that kept him from panicking was the knowledge that no one else had tried to force a bond while he was unconscious. He would've sensed that immediately.

"What happened?" he asked, or tried to. His throat seized up on the second syllable and he ended up coughing harshly, body trembling. Sherlock sat back and reached for a cup of warm water, seemingly recovered. He held it to John's lips and helped him to drink. 

"Moriarty is dead," he said finally once John was done drinking. "He and I fell off of the roof together, and he broke my fall." There was something dark about the way that Sherlock said that, a glint in his eyes that made John shiver. "Plus, I'm told that Mycroft shot him between the eyes before he allowed himself to be removed from the scene, and not even a werewolf could survive a direct hit like that. But just in the event that Moriarty proved to be the exception, Mycroft had him beheaded and then his body was burned to ashes. I'm told that Anthea and Molly personally supervised."

"Thank God," John said emphatically. It was a heady relief to know that Jim Moriarty was dead and would not be able to inflict his particular brand of evil on the world anymore. It was good news for omegas and alphas everywhere. He looked up at Sherlock, the former portion of what he'd said finally sinking in. "Wait - you _fell off of a roof_?! How the bloody hell did you manage to do that?"

"I was angry," Sherlock said mildly. "And Moriarty was foolish enough to stand on the edge."

"You -" Words failed John. He stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It was the most logical course of action, John. Moriarty had his sniper there with him, and Moran was under orders to not interfere as long as Mycroft or I did not make a move. He would have been able to respond to anything else. I had to use the element of surprise in the only way I knew how. Admittedly, I didn't intend to go off of the roof with Moriarty. He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me along." He frowned faintly, tilting his head. "Still, in the end it had the same result."

He'd almost lost Sherlock. Again. That was the only thing going through John's mind. His hands were shaking when he reached up and fisted them into the collar of the hospital gown Sherlock wore. He yanked his alpha down into a ferocious kiss that was over before Sherlock even processed it had begun. "Idiot," he whispered savagely into Sherlock's throat. "Bloody fucking _idiot_."

"John, I'm fine." Familiar, gentle hands cupped his face, turning it towards the light and Sherlock's scrutiny. "It was a calculated risk. I wouldn't have taken it if I hadn't been sure that I would survive."

John wasn't so sure about that. Moriarty was a werewolf, and look at how he'd ended up. But he knew that this was not the time to get into an argument. Not when he was feeling raw, and their bond was so tattered it was like a shadow of what it used to be. Moriarty's serum had worked a lot better than he'd hoped it would, and it was probably only the fact that no other alpha had tried to bond with him that had kept the bond between he and Sherlock from disappearing completely. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes and said, "Are you injured?"

"I fractured a bone in my right ankle," Sherlock said after a thoughtful pause. His eyes were narrowed, and it was evident from the slight spike in his scent that he had picked up on where John's thoughts were headed. "Bruised my tailbone and my upper back, wrenched some muscles, had a slight concussion from the impact. The doctors say that I was remarkably lucky, even for a werewolf. I might have to have an operation on my ankle to make it heal properly. They're holding off to see how my body does at repairing itself." He released John's face, hands sliding down John's neck to his chest. His eyes were bright as he pressed his thumb against the mating mark. "I suspect that my recovery would happen at a much faster rate if my bond with my omega was repaired."

There was nothing quite like the jolt that John experienced when he heard Sherlock call him "my omega". He thought somewhat ruefully about a time when he would have flown into a rage at being called that no matter who said it. Now, it was all he wanted to hear. He arched his back, bringing his body into full contact with his alpha. "Do you think you feel well enough to fuck me, then?"

"Oh John," Sherlock murmured, and he leaned down and inhaled deeply. John breathed out at the same time and closed his eyes, relishing the intimacy as familiar, confident hands gripped his hips. "I assure you that there will _never_ come a day when I don't feel like fucking you."


	61. Chapter 61

It had been three days since Moriarty and Sherlock fell from the rooftop, and Greg had yet to become conscious. Mycroft had spent most of those three days sitting silently beside his mate's bed, watching over his omega. In sleep, Greg looked stunning: the ever present lines of stress had finally disappeared from his face, and even the deep, puffy circles beneath his eyes that had been there since he'd joined Scotland Yard were dramatically lightened. The rest was doing his wonders for his body, and that would have been a relief if only he would _wake up_.

Mycroft sighed, shifting his position slightly. It was not quite a squirm, but the closest he would allow. He had long since learned to be patient while waiting, it was one of the very first things he had been taught as a child, but no one would expect an alpha to tolerate _this_ sort of waiting calmly. He had no idea if or when Greg was going to wake up. The doctors seemed to think that Greg would, but they couldn't say what his state of mind would be like or whether their bond would be intact.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft probed gently at their bond. As far as he could tell, it had not changed in the past twenty minutes. It felt weak, thin tendrils of webbing in the wind compared to the steel beam it should have been, but that was not necessarily due to Moriarty's serum. Their bond was young yet, really only a handful of days old, and they'd been separated during crucial moments. No omega was meant to spend the first few nights of the moon alone, especially not when he was already bonded to an alpha.

Not for the first time, he cursed himself for falling right into Moriarty's plan. He and Sherlock should have known better, but both of them had been drawn in. And then they had been helpless to do anything but listen to Moriarty taunt. Even the mild torture he had inflicted on them - because Moriarty could not resist the opportunity to get his hands on Sherlock once he was in Moriarty's grasp, and then Moriarty said that Mycroft would feel "left out" if he didn't get a turn - hadn't been nearly as bad as knowing what was going to happen to Greg.

If it weren't for John and Greg and Molly and Anthea, if it weren't for the actions of his competent team... Mycroft forcefully wrenched his mind away from the path. If he dwelled upon it anymore, he knew he would go mad. He'd already tortured himself with the life that Moriarty had planned out for Greg and John: a life where the two of them would have been passed around while in the midst of their heat, helpless to do anything but crave sex, and then bonded to whatever alpha was willing to pay the highest fee. Just the _idea_ of it was enough to make him want to find some way to resurrect Moriarty so he could be killed again.

"Sir?"

Mycroft jumped. He would refuse to admit it later on, but his buttocks actually left the chair by a couple of inches as his head whipped around. One of the reasons he'd hired Anthea was her ability to move swiftly and quietly, but it was a rare occasion when she could sneak up on him. He looked up at her, standing in the doorway. She was wearing a black skirt and a white blouse that were both creased just a little, but for her that was roughly the equivalent of just-got-out-of-bed-hair and no make-up. Her eyes were tired, but concerned, and he straightened up a little.

"Yes? Is there a problem?" he asked.

Anthea sighed and managed a small smile. "No sir. I wanted to let you know that Sherlock is awake. And missing, apparently."

Letting out a short laugh, Mycroft shook his head. "Let the doctors know that they need look no further than John's room," he replied, turning his gaze back to Greg. "I did warn them." He'd wanted to get Sherlock and John a room together. It was the normal procedure with bonded pairs. But the bond between the two of them had been so weak, and there had been no bonding ceremony on file, and the doctors had flat out refused to take his word for it. John had ended up in the Omega Wing, but now that Sherlock was awake it would only be a matter of time before he was moved.

"I will eventually," Anthea said. "I figured that it would be prudent to give them a little bit of time alone."

"That would probably be wise." Knowing Sherlock, he would be fucking John through the mattress regardless of what condition they both woke up in. Mycroft couldn't blame him, either. As soon as Greg was awake and aware and relatively pain free, he planned to do the same thing.

"If I may..." Anthea drew a cautious step closer, though she respectfully kept her distance. She was looking at Greg, and her worry was plain.

"The doctors say that he will wake up, but that he should be left to do it on his own," said Mycroft. "They could not tell me when." He turned to look at her again, and this time he caught a hint of scent that was rapidly becoming familiar to him. The sweet combination of Molly-and-Anthea, like fragrant springtime blossoms. "You need not wait around, Anthea. I know you have pressing matters of your own to attend to."

"Yes." Her response was swift and simple. She'd never tried to hide anything from him, and it wasn't because she knew that he would have figured it out anyway. It was just the way she was. She stepped closer and her hand ghosted briefly across his shoulder, a gesture of support that not very many would have been permitted to make. "When he wakes up, please let us know."

"I will," Mycroft promised. He did not turn to watch her leave, but he was aware of her every step towards the door until finally it shut behind her. Her presence had briefly eased the pain and loneliness gnawing away at him, but now it was back in full force. He looked down at Greg and sighed before reaching for the unconscious man's hand, gently intertwining their fingers. He brought Greg's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss against the damp flesh before resting his forehead against their hands. This was all he could do.


	62. Chapter 62

John wasn't sure how long he and Sherlock had been kissing for. But he did know that it had not been for nearly long enough before the door swung open and a woman in a white lab coat marched in. She took one look at the scene, and her eyes went wide. As she began screeching for security, John ripped his mouth away from Sherlock's and groaned loudly in exasperation. He could, of course, see how this would look to the uninformed observer: Sherlock, an alpha, was perched on top of him, hands cupping John's face into a possessive kiss, while he, an omega, was seemingly unable to do anything but give into the kiss. Normally he might not have minded her interference, might have even appreciated it. Normally.

"Cease your screaming," Sherlock hissed at the doctor, tightening his grip on John's shoulders and ducking lower. John could have told him that display of possession wouldn't help, but instead he turned towards the doctor and tried to calm her down.

"Look, you don't understand -" he started. He got no further before two men dressed in security uniforms piled into the room. They grabbed for Sherlock immediately, and surprisingly Sherlock allowed them to physically yank him off of John. John sat up, distressed and annoyed, and frowned at the doctor. The room felt much colder now that he did not have Sherlock's comforting warmth on top of him. "That really wasn't necessary, you know."

The doctor ignored him. "Take him back to the alpha wing!" she barked, gesturing to the two guards. "Make sure that you use restraints to keep him in his bed. If necessary, I'll send along a nurse with a sedative that will keep him down. We can't have him bothering omegas like that, God knows what might've happened - I am so sorry, Mr Watson." She turned a smile on John and reached out to his pat his knee gently, a gesture that probably shouldn't have seemed as patronizing as it did. John twitched away from her touch. "Fortunately one of our nurses was paying attention and noticed that Mr Holmes had left his bed before anything untoward could happen."

"He's my alpha," John said, torn between the urge to laugh and the desire to bury his head in his hands, because nothing could ever be easy, could it? "No, don't take him away!" His voice rose when the two guards made to evict Sherlock from the room. The doctor reached out a hand to stop him when he started to get up, and he flinched back a second time. The feel of her skin touching his flesh was unpleasant, like he'd been rubbed raw.

"I am _not_ leaving," Sherlock said, though whether that was meant to be reassuring or a threat John wasn't sure. "This is my omega, and you have no right to keep us apart just because you're jealous." He showed his teeth, eyes narrowed slightly with flecked gold. "I see that your alpha boyfriend has recently left you for an omega, is that right? You're just a beta, and you're not feeling so good about yourself. Bothers you terribly, doesn't it, that you couldn't keep him around? And you," he turned on the security guard to his right, "you -"

"Sherlock!" John shook his head and threw back the sheet. He was dressed only in a hospital gown, but that was alright. The temperature in the room now seemed warm, almost stifling. He stood up, wincing a little as bruises he hadn't noticed until that point suddenly made themselves known, and deliberately moved away when the doctor tried to touch him for a _third_ time. She'd evidently not got the hint the first two times around. "You're not helping."

"There is no record of a bond ceremony between the two of you," said the doctor, looking back and forth between them. Aside from a pink flush in her cheeks, she seemed to be unperturbed by what Sherlock had said. 

"We haven't had one yet," said Sherlock coolly.

John looked at him, surprised by the "yet". "Regardless of that, he is my alpha and you don't have the right to remove him if I want him to be here," he told the doctor. He might not know a lot about werewolves, but he did know that. It was one of the first things that every medical student was taught, just in case they came across a situation like this. "As you can see, I am of sound mind and I need him here in the room with me." He paused to swipe a hand across his forehead. Beads of sweat were forming all over his body, and it itched uncomfortably. He tugged at the neck of the gown unconsciously, pinning the doctor with the sternest look he could muster. "I think that you'll find removing him will result in a lot of unnecessary injury. I'm sure you're familiar with what happens when you try to get between an alpha and an omega."

She paled slightly, but stood her ground. "He might be coercing you."

"Look, I appreciate your desire to protect your patients but I am not being coerced!" John snapped, resenting the implication that he could be manipulated or fooled that easily. He swallowed hard against a bout of nausea and added, "I'm not even the one who was stupid enough to walk into a madman's plan that nearly got us both killed."

Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly, but other than that he did not respond to John's comment. He had switched all of his attention to John, and as their eyes met it was like everything else in the room ceased to be of any importance. John stared at him intently and realized that the distance between them was just too far. He did not like the fact that the two guards were still holding onto Sherlock, either. He wanted Sherlock to be closer, to be beside him, and more than that he wanted to go back to 221b. This place where he couldn't really smell anything but medicine and chemicals wasn't right and made his head ache. He wanted to go home where the two of them could be alone.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, and his stomach ached.

Something in Sherlock's gaze sharpened and he straightened, shoulders flexing. "You're right, John, we should go home," he said, and both John and the doctor looked at him in surprise.

"Go home? You can't just leave. You both still need to be examined -"

" _Enough_ ," Sherlock said, and there was just enough to bite to the word that the doctor flushed and fell silent. He shook the guards off easily enough, though one of them placed a warning hand against his weapon as he stepped back. "We're going home. John, you're in heat."


	63. Chapter 63

It made sense. Moriarty's serum had been developed to not just break a bond but to force an omega into an unnatural heat outside of their normal cycle, allowing for another bond to form. And even though he wasn't due for quite a while, the symptoms matched with what John remembered: his body felt hot all over, almost as though he had a fever, but he did not feel particularly ill. His stomach was cramping and, now that he was paying attention instead of trying to make sure that Sherlock wasn't sedated, he realized that there was a telling wet patch beginning to grow on the back of his hospital gown. His proximity to Sherlock and the hormones activated by their snogging session had only helped along what the serum had begun.

John stared dumbly at Sherlock. "Oh my god," he said numbly, realizing that Sherlock was definitely correct. The muscles in his lower body spasmed, and he grimaced. He'd forgotten how it felt to clench around nothing but air. It was not a good feeling. He was so _empty_.

"Wait, you're going into heat?" The doctor looked stunned as she turned around and stared at him. She was a beta, John noticed, right before he stopped paying any attention to her whatsoever. He sank back down onto the bed and doubled over, resting his head in his hands. There was too much to think about, and now that he had become aware of his body's cravings for Sherlock he couldn't stop wanting him. The distance between them suddenly seemed to be intolerable. He made a soft sound in the back of his throat, refusing to admit that it was probably a little closer to a whine.

"Yes," Sherlock said tensely. His whole manner changed when he heard that sound coming from his omega, and he fixed a glare on the doctor. "Doubtless you don't have the security clearance to know what _really_ happened to him. Frankly I don't care whether you understand or not. But I am taking my omega home with me right now, even if I have to kill you to do it."

"That won't be necessary." Anthea was standing in the doorway with Molly on her arm. John had no idea how long they had been there for, but judging by the pinched look on Anthea's face it had been a while. Molly slipped into the room, bypassing the doctor, and approached John silently. She was holding clothes - jeans and a shirt - and John took them gratefully. As he stood up, he caught a whiff of familiar scent and realized that the shirt was Sherlock's. He could have kissed Molly for the forethought, and she must have known what he was thinking because she winked at him and then led him into the bathroom to change.

As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock said, "My brother is slipping."

"Your brother is keeping vigil over his omega. The mistake was mine," said Anthea, cool and calm as ever in spite of the tension in her slender frame. "I thought that Mycroft's influence would be enough to make sure that no one would protest your proximity to John. I was wrong." She narrowed her eyes at the doctor. "What is your name?"

"Sarah Sawyer," said the doctor, putting her hands in her pockets. She squared her shoulders defiantly. "I was just doing what I thought was best. We have no record of a bond between this omega and that alpha. I walked in on the alpha pinning him to the bed - what was I supposed to think?"

Sherlock sneered at her, but before he could say anything Anthea held up a hand to silence him. "An understandable mistake," she said, though from the way she said it she was just humouring Sarah. "But now you know that's not the case, so you can leave."

"But they're not cleared to be checked out!"

"Doctor Sawyer, that is not your concern. Please leave." Every word was steeped in repressed anger that dared Sarah to say anything else. And fortunately, it seemed that the woman still possessed a modicum of self preservation skills: she deflated and took a step back, nodding. She cast one more assessing glance at Sherlock before she left, taking the two security guards with her. Once she was gone and the door had been shut again, Anthea sighed and turned to face Sherlock. She indicated another bundle of clothing, placed surreptitiously on a chair by Molly, and Sherlock nodded. He shamelessly stripped off the hospital gown he'd been wearing, uncaring that he was fully erect, and began to dress.

"Lestrade hasn't awakened yet," he said.

Anthea shook her head. "No. But chances are it will happen soon. His body will be a little slower to react to the heat because he's never had one before, but it's going to hit soon or later. Probably the former, considering that John went into heat so quickly after he woke up." She paused before adding, "I have not discussed this with Mycroft yet, but there is a slight possibility that a forced heat could make it difficult for Lestrade to have heats in the future."

"Don't tell him," Sherlock said, fastening his trousers and doing up the zip. He pulled on the shirt and buttoned it quickly, not caring that it was wrinkled. It was only going to be torn off in a matter of minutes. "I suspect that he will have already thought of that, or he will as soon as Lestrade is in heat." He made a face at the idea. "However, I suggest that you be prepared to move the two of them to a safer place as soon as Lestrade is awake. He will not want to wait." He was speaking from experience, and Anthea nodded.

"I know," she said. " I'll call you as soon as I know anything." Her lips quirked into a faint smile. "You can let me know when you're finished."

"Will it last as long as a normal heat?"

"The scientist I spoke to couldn't be sure," she murmured. "He thought that it was unlikely, but the serum has not been tested on any omegas who still retained their bond to their alpha. It's likely that your presence and the bond is going to change things." She looked up at him and smirked. "I guess you'll just have to let the experiment run its course."

Sherlock smirked back at her as the door opened and Molly and John came out. John walked towards Sherlock immediately, his gait slightly awkward due to his erection, and he pressed close as soon as they were within arm's reach. He tucked his head into Sherlock's chest and shivered, even though Sherlock could feel the heat that was pouring off of him. "I want to go home," John said quietly. 

"Then let's go," Sherlock replied, wrapping an arm around John's waist. With one last nod to the women, he ushered John out.


	64. Chapter 64

Greg was drifting, and it was nice. Being a detective inspector for Scotland Yard was everything he had always dreamed about, and he would never give up his job, but it also came with pitifully little time off. He couldn't remember the last time he had lazed around in bed and just enjoyed the fact that he didn't need to leap up and go charging about, and it had been a very long time since he had woken up and not felt even more exhausted than he had before he went to bed. That wasn't to say that he wasn't still tired: he was. He could have easily gone back to sleep. But there was something stopping him.

For one thing, his body felt too warm. It was like someone had flicked the temperature in the room up to an uncomfortably high level and then hadn't bothered to turn it back down even after the room got to the point where it was stifling. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead and under his arms, and in a couple of other very awkward and intimate places that he didn't want to think about too closely. Not only that, but he was becoming erect and his nipples had hardened even though he wasn't really all that interested in having sex. If Mycroft would have stretched out beside him and asked, Greg probably would have turned him down. His stomach was cramping uncomfortably, and it was like the wires in his body had got crossed at some point.

Then there was the other thing: Mycroft. He could tell that his lover was in the room just from the scent alone, even if Mycroft hadn't been holding his hand. The scent was sweet and strong and familiar, and it called to Greg in a way that he couldn't ignore. He found that his eyes were opening without his permission, and now that they were open it didn't seem to make much sense to just keep staring at the ceiling. He tilted his head and found that Mycroft was sitting right beside him, as close as he could get without actually climbing right up onto the bed. Greg stared at him for a few seconds, realizing that Mycroft looked absolutely dreadful. Without meaning to, he squeezed Mycroft's hand.

"Gregory?" Mycroft's eyes opened immediately and he looked down at Greg with so much naked hope in his eyes that Greg wanted to cry. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious for, or what had happened while he'd been out, but it was obvious that everything was taking a terrible toll on his alpha. Mycroft had finally lost that stone he'd always been talking about, and there were dark rings under his puffy eyes that indicated a serious lack of sleep.

"My," he said softly, unable to get out anything else before he started to cough. Mycroft picked up a pitcher of water and poured him a glass, holding out the straw so that Greg could take a few sips. The water was warm, but it was the best thing Greg had ever tasted. He drank over half of it before he pulled away, curiosity getting in the way of his thirst. "What happened? Where's John? How is Sherlock? Is Moriarty in prison?"

Mycroft smiled, some of the tension that had been in his shoulders easing away. "I suppose that covers the question of whether or not you remember anything," he remarked, pressing the straw back to Greg's lips. As Greg obediently drank, he continued, "John and Sherlock are both fine. As far as I know, they are on their way back to Baker Street. Both of them had mild injuries that will heal in time, nothing overly serious. Moriarty is not in prison. He's dead. The rest of his men have either been captured or were killed as well."

Hearing that Moriarty was dead was a relief. "You're sure? That he's dead, I mean."

"I put the bullet between his eyes," Mycroft replied quietly but firmly. "And then Anthea and Miss Hooper personally saw to it that the remainder of his body was burned to ashes. Yes, I am positive that he is dead. I've had operatives working on dismantling the rest of his web, and hopefully we'll soon have word that all of the omegas who were taken will have been found and returned to where they belong."

"Good," Greg said, breathing out a sigh of relief. Mycroft was, of course, excellent at coming in and doing all of the clean-up work. Greg had never doubted him for that. But it was still nice to hear that things had been moving along while he'd been lazing around in a hospital bed. He started to sit up, using his hands to propel his upper body into a sitting position, and let out a huff of surprise when Mycroft released his hand and instead put a hand to Greg's chest to keep him from getting all the way up. Because he hadn't really noticed before when it was just their hands, but now that Mycroft was touching him somewhere a lot more prominent it felt like there were little tingles of pleasure travelling out from where they connected. It was more because of that, that Greg stopped trying to sit up and instead sank back against the bed.

"Moriarty's serum," and fuck, Mycroft actually sounded hesitant, that was never a good sign, "was designed to remove the bond between an alpha and omega so that the omega -"

"It didn't remove our bond, did it?" Greg interrupted, panicked. He thought that he could still feel Mycroft, that he would know where Mycroft was if the man walked out of the room, but he couldn't be certain. It was all too new, and he just didn't have enough information about it to be able to say whether or not the bond was still there. His heart rate picked up, causing one of the monitors to start beeping obnoxiously. Mycroft's hand flexed against his chest and Greg couldn't help pushing into the contact a little, it felt so good.

"No, the bond is still there," Mycroft said. "But - as I was saying, the serum was also designed to send the omega into an artificial heat so that a new bond could be created in place of the old one. And even though we were able to keep our bond intact..." He paused, and Greg filled in the blanks.

"I'm in heat," he said, suddenly understanding why he was feeling the way he was. Why he simultaneously wanted to crawl into Mycroft's lap and push the man away until his body stopped aching, why he was so hot, why there was so much slick between his thighs and arse cheeks, why he wanted - he swallowed hard. He had not been expecting this so soon. He'd known it was coming, but it was in the future and this... this was now, and wow he's so unprepared. _Fucking_ Moriarty. 

"Greg," Mycroft said quietly, waiting until Greg looked him in the eyes. "There are ways to get through a heat without - I can bring you toys, and stay with you, and help you get through it without knotting you. If that's what you want, we can do it. It's entirely up to you."


	65. Chapter 65

The hospital in general wasn't overly pleased by the fact that both Sherlock and John were leaving against medical advice. John suspected that most of them were either being paid a little too well or had been threatened into caring about their health, because the sheer amount of doctors and nurses that approached to try and stop them was baffling. By the fifth doctor, Sherlock was reduced to bearing his teeth and uttering a growl that sounded like it should not have been able to come from a human mouth. The doctor looked back and forth between the two of them and evidently decided that it wasn't worth it, because he backed off in a hurry and let the two of them pass through the doors into the cool night air.

It helped a little, the feeling of the wind against John's face and hair, but not nearly enough. He bit back a needy groan and let himself lean just a little more against Sherlock, savouring the feel of Sherlock's body and the strength of his scent. If he pressed just a little bit closer, he knew he'd be able to rub that scent all over his body. The thought was immensely appealing because right now he smelled like the hospital and medicine with a lingering tint of chemicals and gun powder, and that wasn't right. He exhaled slowly and turned his head into Sherlock's throat, where his scent was the strongest, then rubbed his nose up and down Sherlock's collarbone.

Sherlock made a choked sound. "John," he said, gripping John's shoulders that much more tighter. His voice sounded strained. "Unless you want to be knotted in the middle of downtown London, I suggest that you stop."

"Wouldn't care where it was," John mumbled.

"I'd like to believe that, but I know better," Sherlock said. He looked relieved when a black car pulled up in front of them. The driver leapt out - a beta, John noted immediately, of course he was: no alpha - with the possible exception of Mycroft - would be allowed within a hundred feet of John now that his heat was in full force - and opened the door for them, expression as calm as though this was something he faced every day. Maybe it was. 

"I feel hot," John said, obediently crawling into the car when Sherlock's hands, resting on his shoulders, gave him a light push. It was difficult to make his muscles work right, he wanted to just roll over and present until Sherlock gave in, but he managed to reach for the hem of his shirt. Even though it smelled like Sherlock, he wanted it off. He let out a frustrated whine when Sherlock's hands gripped his wrist, preventing him from stripping. He tried to push Sherlock away, but with his lack of coordination it was like trying to push at water.

"I know you do," Sherlock murmured, "and you'll feel much better when we get back to the flat."

"I'd feel better if you fucked me." John turned his head, studying Sherlock's expression. The heat was making his head spin. He felt flushed and _hot_ all over. His cock was fully erect and he could feel slick pooling between his thighs; he suspected, in the back of his mind that was still working properly, that the seat of his jeans was probably close to being soaked through, if they hadn't been already. He couldn't understand what was putting Sherlock off. Last time, Sherlock couldn't wait to pin him down. They'd fucked practically non-stop. He bit his lip.

"What?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

"Nothing."

"No, it's something. What?" Now he looked slightly annoyed.

"Do you..." John trailed off before he could finish his sentence, because even through the foggy haze that his brain had become he recognized that he really did not want to ask this question. Unfortunately, he was sitting in the back seat of a car with Sherlock Holmes. John had to look away as the confusion slowly faded from Sherlock's face, so he was unprepared for the arm that suddenly slipped around his waist and hauled him into Sherlock's lap. He let out a startled yelp and grabbed at the arm around his waist, holding on even though the car wasn't going all that fast. A warm gust of breath over the back of his neck had him freezing in place.

"It's not because I don't want you, John," Sherlock said in a low voice. The words were barely audible, and John only heard them because he was so close. "If it weren't for the fact that I know you would be mortified once your heat has passed, I would knot you right here. But I know you, and so I'm going to wait until we're back at 221b." He tightened his grip and ground upwards, so that John had no choice but to feel the massive erection Sherlock was sporting. He whimpered with need. "The last time you were in heat, you weren't mine yet. And now you are, and _fuck_... I want you so much that you can't even imagine how much you're straining my control."

"Sherlock," John whined, and he might have been embarrassed by the amount of need except that he was incapable of such a useless emotion at this point. He was so turned on that he couldn't see straight. "Please, I can't wait, I can't. I feel like I'm burning up inside. I need something, I can't - oh god please." He ended with a choked sob, squirming on Sherlock's knee. Being so close, with only a few layers of clothing separating them, was doing an excellent job of reminding him of how empty he was. He clenched uselessly, whimpering again.

Swearing softly, Sherlock brought his free hand around and flipped the button open on John's jeans. John panted for breath as Sherlock pushed the zip down, and he was expecting Sherlock to palm his shaft. He bucked up eagerly in anticipation, lifting his buttocks away from Sherlock's lap. Sherlock must have been waiting for that, because he slipped his hand underneath John at just the right time. Heedless of the driver and the fact that they were only separated by tinted glass, John wailed as two fingers slid right into his hole with no warning whatsoever.

He didn't even realize that he was babbling nonsense, begging and pleading, until Sherlock shushed him, the hand on John's waist sliding up to pull his head around so that Sherlock could kiss him. He parted his lips without thinking, gasping as Sherlock's fingers mimicked the movement by spreading him wide, and couldn't stop the tears of need that fell down his cheeks as a third finger slipped in. Sherlock broke the kiss and kissed him on the cheek, tasting his tears, before pushing the collar of his shirt aside and gently fastening his teeth over the bond mark.

It helped, but only a little. The ride back to Baker Street had never been so long.


	66. Chapter 66

"You would..." Greg trailed off, speechless, staring up at his lover. He recognized the look on Mycroft's face, of course he did. It was one that he had become intimately familiar with over the years. That was Mycroft's stubborn expression, the one that meant he was going to do what he thought was right with little input from anyone else, the look he wore when he was making some personal sacrifice for the sake of a someone he loved - and considering that list was pretty small, that person was generally Greg. It was the look that he'd often got whenever the subject of Greg becoming a werewolf came up, and for a long time, even though he had hated the sight of it, Greg never protested because he wasn't ready.

Now, he shifted his weight onto his back and sat up. Too quickly, as it turned out, because the world spun around him and he groaned, putting a hand to his head. "Fucking Moriarty," he muttered, not sure whether it was the heat or the after effects of the serum that was throwing his balance off. He remembered not feeling all that well before Moriarty had intervened, so there was just as good a chance that it wasn't the serum at all. But it was just easier to blame that son of a bitch. 

"Are you alright? Should I call a doctor?"

"No. I'm fine. But you - how could you even suggest something so stupid?" He pushed the covers back and swung his legs off of the bed. Mycroft tried to stop him from getting up, but Greg pinned him with a stern look that made him back off. "Mycroft, regardless of what you say I know you've been waiting for this to happen for as long as we've been together. I'm not - I _know_ that. The whole point of being bonded with an omega is so that we can go through heats together. You said it yourself, each one makes the bond between us stronger. So if you think I'm going to let you hang around and not do anything after you're the whole reason this is happening, you're not half as smart as you like to think you are."

For a moment, Mycroft just looked surprised. Greg met his eyes steadily and just waited. He knew that the real meaning of his words, harsh though they might have sounded, would click through eventually. And sure enough, after a couple of seconds Mycroft swallowed and nodded. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I can smell you," Greg said by way of response, because it was the truth. He'd always thought that Mycroft smelled good, but now that scent was something irresistible. He wanted to climb on top of his alpha and rub himself across Mycroft until they both smelled the same. He wanted Mycroft to pin him down and fuck him senseless. He let all of his desire show on his face, thoroughly enjoying the way that Mycroft's breath hitched. "You smell so fucking good, My, I can hardly take it. If we weren't in a hospital, I'd be begging you to fuck me already." He paused and shifted his weight, eyes fluttering shut. "No, strike that. I don't care that we're in a hospital. I want you to fuck me now."

A harshly exhaled breath was the only warning that Greg got before a rough hand slipped around the back of his neck, reeling him in. It was all too easy to let it happen, to be swept up into the circle of Mycroft's arms and open his mouth to a kiss that, had his body not been on fire already, would have done the job quite nicely. He moaned into Mycroft's mouth when he felt hands groping at his arse. He was wearing boxers underneath the flimsy gown, and he wasn't too pleased when the fabric stopped the progress of Mycroft's fingers. He pressed forward eagerly, grinding himself against Mycroft, and managed to tear his mouth away long enough to speak.

"Under," he gasped, squirming. "Mycroft, please."

Mycroft kissed him instead of responding even as one of his hands slipped beneath the waistband, palming his buttocks. Greg could really feel the slick that had been building up now, and it was a frankly weird sensation. But Mycroft seemed to find it appealing. He growled low in his throat, and his eyes flashed gold when he pressed excited fingers in between and sought out Greg's entrance. Just one light brush was enough to make Greg's knees go weak, and even as they buckled he tried to push backwards with a needy whine. Now that Mycroft was so close, it was all he could think about.

"Oh god, Gregory," Mycroft murmured. His pupils were dilated, lips swollen from the intensity of their kissing, and when he pulled back without making actual contact Greg whimpered. He couldn't help it. Before he'd touched Mycroft the sensations had been bearable, but now he was on the verge of crashing fast. He tried to chase Mycroft's mouth, but his lover pulled away with a regretful shake of his head. "We can't, not here. It's not a safe place."

"I know you. You've got men all over the place," Greg said. His heart was thrumming and he felt dizzy. He couldn't help angling until he could rub his cock against Mycroft's abdomen. 

"Yes, but we're going to be knotted and I don't want that to happen here." Mycroft, somehow, managed to sound like he wasn't seconds away from losing his composure entirely. Even as he removed his hand from Greg's boxers, he planted lingering kisses up and down the smooth column of Greg's throat. "Get dressed. I have a car waiting to take us home."

Home. The word was an appealing one, conjuring up images of Mycroft's enormous bed. Greg found himself wishing that part of a werewolf's powers included teleportation, because he was left feeling cold and bereft when Mycroft stepped back to let him get dressed. A pile of clothing had mysteriously appeared on the bed while they'd been occupied (he blamed Anthea, the woman had secret ninja powers) and he reached for them with shaking fingers. He picked up the shirt and then stood there, staring at it.

"Greg?" Mycroft prompted after a moment.

"I can't - I don't -" His throat closed up with words he couldn't say. He was trembling all over. Mycroft watched him for a minute before he cleared his throat and stepped closer, gently taking the shirt and setting it back down on the bed. He reached for the hospital gown, stripping it off of Greg carefully, before helping him to put the shirt on. Greg whimpered when it fell against his skin, chafing in spite of the high cotton count, and Mycroft shushed him with a soft, soothing sound.

"We'll be home soon," he promised, guiding Greg out of the room without even trying to put the jeans on. "Only a little longer, I promise."


	67. Chapter 67

John didn't actually remember their arrival back home. He had a vague memory of being carried up the stairs, but by the time he really came back to himself he'd been bent over the sofa and was naked from the waist down, and Sherlock was pressed up against him so tightly that there couldn't have been more than an inch of space between them. From the feel of it Sherlock hadn't even bothered to take his trousers off, much less the rest of his clothing. He'd just unzipped and started fucking John right there in the middle of the flat with the door still open. And now they were stuck together for at least a good ten to fifteen minutes, possibly longer.

"I hope Mrs Hudson doesn't come up to see how we are," John said at last, dropping his head forward to rest on his arms. There was no point in getting angry. The heat had completely taken over him, and he'd been incoherent with desire to the point that it was amazing Sherlock had held out for as long as he had. He'd never felt that level of burning need before. By the end of it, it had got so bad that it was like a physical pain throughout his whole body. Even Sherlock's fingers hadn't helped. 

"I don't imagine she will. I suspect that Anthea will have given her a heads up, and even if she didn't Mrs Hudson will be able to tell that we're otherwise occupied," Sherlock responded. His voice was very quiet, the words spoken in between kisses that were gently deposited on the back of John's neck, and it just made everything feel so much more intimate and real. John closed his eyes in bliss and wiggled, just a little, just to feel how solidly they were knotted together. 

"That's good," he muttered finally. "I'm not sure she would have appreciated walking in on us."

Sherlock snorted. His hands didn't seem to want to stay still. They roamed continuously, sliding down John's ribs and ghosting across his belly, playing briefly with his cock before rubbing at his nipples. "I think you're under estimating her level of interest," he said dryly. "She hasn't mated with anyone for quite some time. I think she'd be more interested than you realize."

"God, really?" John lifted his head and turned to look at his mate. He wasn't the expecting the kiss he got as an answer, but it turned out to be much nicer than talking ever could have been. Sherlock was an excellent kisser, soft and sweet with an edge of passion, and John shivered as the kiss grew deeper. He clenched around Sherlock's cock, savouring the feeling of being so full. It was hard to imagine that if Moriarty'd had his way, John would've been experiencing this heat in a totally different way. 

"What?" Sherlock asked, breaking the kiss to study John's face. He must have deduced the answer, because he added firmly, "Moriarty is dead, John. You don't have to worry about him ever again. None of us do."

"I know." John took a deep breath when he felt the beginning swirl of desire that made his head feel foggy. He groaned as Sherlock abruptly slid free of him. That had been a shorter knot than he was expecting, lasting only around five minutes. He wondered if that meant this heat would be more intense, more demanding, than the last one. He made a soft sound of protest when Sherlock stood up, leaving him bereft. The air felt surprisingly cold against his bare flesh as he watched his alpha walk across the room and close the door. Sherlock locked it and stripped off the remainder of his clothing before he turned back around, revealing that he was already being affected by the pheromones John was giving off. He was half erect, the knot at the base of his erection swelling again.

It took a lot of concentration to stand up and move over to where Sherlock was. Every part of his body was demanding that he get down on his hands and knees and present until Sherlock fucked him again, but he fought against it. Sherlock raised an eyebrow curiously, but remained where he was. He allowed John to push him back against the door. John pressed his nose into Sherlock's throat, scenting him, before he let his lips trail down to Sherlock's nipple. He stuck his tongue out and licked just once, curious, and felt Sherlock's hands suddenly come to rest on his hips. But Sherlock didn't try to hurry him along, didn't rush him, just let John know that he was there.

In the throes of omega heat, it was common for an alpha to begin giving off their own set pheromones. It didn't really effect the omega, it was more to cover up the scent of the omega so that passing alphas didn't get any ideas. To John, it just made Sherlock's scent that much stronger. He dropped to his knees and looked up at Sherlock, throat full of words that he knew he'd never be able to say. So he leaned forward and kissed the tip of Sherlock's cock, just once, before he finally let himself roll over onto his hands and knees. He knew exactly what sort of picture he was presenting as he reached back with his bad arm and pressed his buttocks apart, revealing his slick- and come-soaked entrance. 

"Sherlock," he said hoarsely. He was already trembling with need, could feel the lubrication that was trickling down his thighs because there was just too much of it, and he knew that within a few minutes he'd be driven into the same state of begging as before. "Please."

"John," Sherlock groaned, the sound more a ragged breath than anything else, and then he dropped to his knees and gripped John's cheeks. He spread them apart even further, pausing just long enough for John to take his hand away and regain his balance, before he ducked his head. John received a hot gust of breath as warning before Sherlock licked him, long and hot, and he moaned uncontrollably.

During his heat, everything felt a hundred times more sensitive than it did during the rest of the time. It was almost too much, verging on _too_ pleasurable, and he couldn't stop squirming. Sherlock kept a firm grip on him, though, refusing to let him move away as he cleaned his omega up using nothing more than his tongue. John gasped and moaned and wriggled until his throat ached and his knees began to hurt, but still Sherlock just kept licking at him. And when Sherlock started pushing his tongue inside, well, John had no idea what to do with himself. It still wasn't enough, too much pleasure making his brain fuzzy but leaving him unable to orgasm.

"Sherlock," he pleaded.

"I know." Finally, thank god, Sherlock lifted his head away and shifted closer. John whimpered, warm and willing, as Sherlock's cock sank deep inside of him. This was heaven, and he never wanted to leave.


	68. Chapter 68

It was nothing short of strange, Greg reflected on the drive home, to be so utterly consumed in sexual desire that you could think of nothing else. It wasn't even like the sort of need he felt when it had been two long weeks and they'd barely got the chance to see each other, exchanging only a quick kiss at five in the morning as one or both of them were on their way out of the flat. It went far deeper than that. It was like every nerve in his body had suddenly awakened with only one purpose in mind: sexual pleasure. And for the most part it was all centred around his arse.

Oh sure, his cock was hard. Of course it was. He was pretty sure he hadn't been this hard since he was nineteen years old and his friends decided that everyone needed to visit a strip joint before they turned twenty. But it was nothing compared to his arse. The word sensitive couldn't even begin to describe how it was. Even just sitting in the back of the car was making him squirm, because the seat was firm enough to cause just a tiny bit of pressure around his entrance. Sometimes it was all he could to have the restraint to keep from rocking back and forth and trying to increase it.

He was also leaking slick, which was one of the weirdest feelings he'd ever experienced. And uncomfortable, too, because now his underwear was damp and soggy and rubbing against his skin. He couldn't help fidgeting. There was a nagging voice in his mind pointing out that it would be far more comfortable to just take his boxers off entirely - and while he was at it, he could also get rid of the pesky shirt that Mycroft had made him put on. It would be a lot better if he was naked, because then he'd have access to everything. Better yet, _Mycroft_ would have access and might be persuaded to do something about it.

"No, Gregory," Mycroft said gently, catching his wrists when Greg went to yank the shirt off. His famous composure was in full working order. No one would have known that Mycroft Holmes was in the backseat of his car with an omega that had gone into heat, not unless they knew him well enough to recognize the subtle signs of stress and arousal. Even Mycroft's extraordinarily expensive suit couldn't entirely hide the fact that he was erect.

"Please," Greg gasped. It seemed to be the only thing that he could force out. His tongue felt thick and heavy, and speaking took far too much effort when actions could say a lot more than words. He twisted his head, trying to get close enough to Mycroft to be able to kiss him. He felt like he was melting in desire, and wouldn't have been surprised to look down and see that nothing was left of his flesh and bones but puddles. It was not unlike being encased in steam, only he couldn't walk away from this. There was only one cure.

"Not yet," Mycroft amended, casting a quick glance out the window. "You'll only have to wait a couple more minutes, that's it. You can do that, right?"

Mycroft continued to talk, but the words were lost on Greg. He strained to listen to the sound of his lover's voice, the low tones familiar and soothing. The whole lower half of his body was beginning to throb, but the ache was definitely the worst between his buttocks. It was like a dull, sharp ache centred right around his backside and he clenched automatically in the hopes of assuaging it, only to choke back a whimper at the reminder that he was still empty. 

"We're almost there, and you're doing so well. I know this is difficult for you. I should have moved you sooner. Please forgive my oversight, Greg, I'm sorry."

Greg stopped the low whine that he hadn't even been conscious of. Mycroft _never_ called him Greg. Never. With difficulty, he opened his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. Mycroft's face was showing signs of the strain now as he struggled to hold back from just giving in to what his omega wanted, and Greg knew that he wasn't helping at all. The back of the car was filled with the thick, heady scent of Greg's pheromones, and even the top-of-the-line air system wasn't enough to filter it out. 

"Don't be sorry," he whispered with difficulty, lifting a shaking hand and pressing it to Mycroft's cheek. "Nothing to... forgive you for. Love you."

"I love you too," Mycroft said immediately, without the slightest bit of hesitation. It warmed Greg's heart. He kept his eyes on Mycroft, struggling to remain focused as the car finally came to a stop outside of the flat. The driver leapt out and opened the door. Greg got out first after a brief fumble with the belt that only ended when Mycroft reached over and opened it for him. Mycroft was right behind him, one warm hand on the small of Greg's back as they hurried into the building and then into the lift.

There was no more waiting. The second the lift doors shut, Greg found himself pressed up against them. He gasped and found himself being kissed deeply, a tongue slipping between his parted lips. Mycroft's hands were everywhere at once, ripping his shirt open, pushing the waistband of his boxers down, fiddling with the fasteners on his own trousers. All Greg could do was hold on as his legs were pushed apart and then lifted, a hand under each of his knees, until he got the hint and wrapped them around Mycroft's waist.

Mycroft never once stopped kissing him as he lined his cock up with Greg's entrance and pushed inside, bottoming out with one deep, smooth thrust. Greg's cry was muffled by the kiss. He closed his eyes and arched against his alpha, overwhelmed by how bloody fantastic it felt to finally be filled by something. No, not just something: Mycroft. He broke the kiss and gave a needy little whine that was answered by a deep growl as Mycroft began to rock against him, never fully pulling out before he shoved back in.

Greg was close even before Mycroft began to fuck him, and the feeling of Mycroft's belly against his trapped cock was enough to push him over the edge. He moaned loudly as he shuddered, muscles clenching, and heard Mycroft grunt as he gave one particularly hard push. The edge of his knot popped just inside of Greg, who stilled at the warm, sticky heat pumping inside of him. It was the last thing he needed, that last little bit that finally took the edge off and made him able to think a little more clearly. He went limp, slumping against Mycroft and snuffling lazily against his neck.

"Alright?" Mycroft asked shakily once he'd caught his breath.

"I can cross sex in a lift off of my bucket list," Greg mumbled. He heard Mycroft chuckle and grinned to himself, thinking that if a heat could get Mycroft Holmes to have sex in a lift maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.


	69. Chapter 69

John woke up feeling sticky and satisfied and sore. He wasn't surprised to see that he and Sherlock were lying in bed - he actually had a vague, muddled memory of having sex in the kitchen and the hall on the way _to_ the bedroom - but he was surprised by the fact that someone was knocking on their door. Hard. He sat up as best he could, mindful of the fact that Sherlock's arm was slung across his waist, and said, "Um. Who is it?"

"It's Anthea," came the response. Thankfully, she did not open the door. "I need to speak to you and Sherlock. If you're done. It's important. Can I come in?"

"Um," John said again, knowing that he was blushing, and fortunately that seemed to serve as an answer because he heard her moving away from the door. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced around. The sheets on the bed had all been kicked off. Books that had been previously neatly stacked on Sherlock's desk were now spilled across the floor. Everything that had been on the nightstand was also now on the floor, and there was one set of wet footprints leading from the door to the bed. His body was liberally covered in bruises and bite marks, and when he touched the mating mark on his throat it was hot and inflamed, aching under even the light pressure from his fingers. Apparently Sherlock had bitten him again, and more than once from the feel of it. He'd probably enjoyed every minute of it, too. He just couldn't remember it.

The arm around his waist tightened and Sherlock groaned. "Go back to sleep," he ordered, his voice muffled by the fact that he was sprawled on his belly and basically speaking into the pillow. John couldn't resist the fond smile that tugged at his lips as he observed the state of Sherlock's back. Several bright red marks that looked suspiciously like scratches made from blunt fingernails marred the pale flesh. He reached out and lazily traced one of the marks, inwardly delighting at the way that Sherlock shivered beneath his touch.

"I think Anthea wants us to get up, and I'm afraid that if we don't she's going to come in," he said, conscious of the fact that there wasn't even a sheet to hide behind. 

"Let her. She's seen it all before."

"Really?" John said, because there was a story there and he was, one day, going to find out what it was.

Sherlock just groaned again and shook his head, pressing his face deeper into the pillows. It didn't look like he was going to be getting up anytime soon, and honestly John didn't blame him. He felt completely exhausted and not only that, but he didn't remember everything that had happened. The past - he grabbed for the nearest phone and checked the date and time - day and a half was a frantic blur to him, and only a couple of key moments stood out. He remembered having sex in the kitchen and hallway, being pinned underneath Sherlock on the bed, and at some point he thought that Sherlock had also fucked him in the shower (which would account for there only being one set of wet footprints, as Sherlock would've had to carry him if they'd been knotted together). It hadn't been like that before. 

"Do you remember what we did?" he asked, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. When he didn't get an answer, he frowned in annoyance and determinedly shook the man's shoulder. "Come on, Sherlock, focus."

"No, I don't," Sherlock muttered when it became obvious that John wasn't going to stop. He lifted his head at last, peering up at John. "I remember some things. Carrying you up the stairs. Fucking you while you were bent over the couch." He paused, as though trying to remember more, before shaking his head. "Everything after that is... blank."

John pressed his lips together, worried, and shoved at the heavy arm across his hips. As tempting as it was to stay in bed, he thought that they should probably figure out what Anthea wanted. "Let me up."

Reluctantly, Sherlock moved his arm. John swung his legs off of the bed and stood. He was completely unprepared for the way his knees immediately buckled, refusing to support him, and spilled him right back onto the bed. He caught his balance with a hand to the end of the mattress and swore, realizing that the sudden stand-and-drop had made him dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the disorienting spinning to stop. Fatigue was creeping up on him rapidly, and the urge to sink back down beside Sherlock and fall back asleep was overwhelming. It seemed like the much easier option to actually getting up, especially now that his eyes were already shut and he could feel Sherlock's warmth against his back.

"John?" Sherlock said, and it was like his voice was coming from a distance. The mattress shifted, and then Sherlock's arm was bracing him to prevent him from lying back down. "John!"

"I'm awake," he mumbled. 

"Really, because it looks to me like you're sleeping." Sherlock sounded amused and a little concerned.

John wanted to answer, he really did. But by the time that his brain had formed the words he wanted to say, Sherlock was already shifting him back down on the bed. Sherlock's warmth moved away, and then a cool sheet was tossed over the lower half of his body. A moment later, the door opened and Anthea's low voice was saying, "I was afraid this might happen."

"And you thought banging on the door and alarming him would be the best way to avoid that?"

"Shut up," Anthea muttered. She didn't come any closer to the bed. "You're right, I apologize. I tried to call you but no one answered, and I couldn't think of any other way to get your attention without getting John's too. That's why I wanted to come in."

"How long will he sleep for?"

"Well, omegas usually spend about a day recharging after a heat. So it could be anywhere from three days to five," she answered apologetically. "This artificial heat put a lot of strain on their bodies. Greg couldn't even muster the strength to get out of bed last night. He sat up and immediately fell asleep."

Sherlock said nothing, but the question hanging in the room was obvious. Anthea answered it. "He's fine, but like I said it will take them both a while to recover. The last of the serum should have worked its way out of John's system by now, but I'll have a doctor stop by tomorrow if you want to be sure. In the meantime I suggest you stay here with him, Sherlock. He'll recover more quickly that way."

"You were the one who got us up in the first place," Sherlock reminded her. Anthea huffed something under her breath that made Sherlock chuckle, and a few seconds later the door shut. Footsteps crossed back to the bed and then the mattress sank beneath Sherlock's weight. He seemed to realize that John was still awake, because as he curled up behind him he said quietly, "She'll bring us food later on. Just go back to sleep, John."

Right, John thought, and as a warm arm curled back into place across his waist he let go.


	70. Chapter 70

Greg woke up tired and, more importantly, blissed out. Every muscle in his body ached, but it was the good kind of pain that meant he'd been exercising for a long period of time. Or, as the case definitely was, having sex. He pushed his hands over his head and stretched without opening his eyes, realizing that even though it felt like he had been sleeping for a while he was still tired. But not too tired to not notice the hitch in Mycroft's breathing when he moved. It wasn't the "good you're awake and looking really sexy, come over here so I can fuck you stupid" kind of hitch. It was the "thank god you're awake because I've been laying here for hours worrying that you wouldn't". Considering that the last thing he remembered they'd been indulging in some exquisitely hot sex, that was more than a little worrying.

"What happened?" he mumbled, opening his eyes. He didn't have to search far to find his partner. Mycroft was sitting on the bed beside him, dressed in a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms that had once belonged to Greg and nothing else. He'd showered not long ago, the sparse covering of ginger hair on his chest was still damp from water. Greg experienced the inexplicable urge to press his face against that hair and taste the flesh beneath with his tongue, see how wet it really was for himself.

"Your heat," Mycroft said, obvious relief colouring his tone as he reached out and placed the back of his hand to Greg's forehead. "It was much stronger than I was anticipating."

"You mean it's not always like that?" That was a little disappointing. He didn't remember everything that had happened during the past few days, but what he did remember was enough to make his body interested in going another round or two. 

"Moriarty's serum took your basic biological function and kicked it into overdrive. The pheromones you were exuding were ten times more potent than normal," Mycroft murmured. "Normally you would be able to remember everything that happened during your heat, but even my memories are clouded. And it shouldn't take you this long to recuperate, either."

"This long? How long is this long?"

"Three days."

" _Three days_?" Greg burst out, lurching forward into a seated position. The sudden change made him feel dizzy and he groaned, clapping a hand to his head as he fell back down against the pillows. "Ow, shit, that was a bad idea. No, don't get up. I'm fine, really." He rubbed his temple for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. Jesus, no wonder Mycroft looked worried. If Mycroft had been out for three days... "Wait, so did it take you longer to recover too?"

"I've spent most of my time here with you, yes," Mycroft said, which was basically his way of admitting saying yes without actually admitting it.

"Well fuck." Greg shook his head slowly and reached for Mycroft's hand, interlacing their fingers automatically. "You must've been scared shitless, My."

"I was concerned, but the doctor reassured me that there wouldn't be any lasting effects." Mycroft looked at him before dropping his gaze to their hands. "He also said that he didn't think your normal schedule of heats would be affected."

"There was a chance they would be?"

Mycroft nodded, looking entirely unrepentant even though he'd deliberately kept that information to himself. "Yes. You've never experienced a heat before. There was a concern that this artificial, forced heat might be too much for your body. That it might burn you out, to put it simply. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry about it when you were facing your first heat." The words were spoken a little defensively, and Greg knew exactly why. They'd had several long, detailed talks in the past about Mycroft keeping important information from him. Granted, some of it was for a legitimate reason since a lot of the information Mycroft dealt with was classified, but sometimes Mycroft just got into the habit of not sharing things he didn't want Greg to worry about and it had caused some problems.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, examining Mycroft's face before he responded. He could see the fatigue that was written there, and he knew that Mycroft must have been going crazy. And he'd kept all of it quiet, the idiot. Greg sighed. "I understand, and in this case I guess I can forgive you," he said at last, giving Mycroft's hand a gentle squeeze. "But you know how I feel about you doing that."

"I know." Now that he knew Greg wasn't really angry, Mycroft's slumped shoulders straightened a little. Greg couldn't help giving him a fond smile as he tugged Mycroft down next to him. Mycroft didn't take much prompting, stretching out next to him and pulling Greg into his arms. Into Greg's hair, he whispered, "I'm just glad that you're alright."

A lump formed in Greg's throat, and he found it necessary to swallow a couple of times before he could respond. People had asked him, in the past, what he could possibly see in a man like Mycroft Holmes. Greg usually didn't bother to explain. He couldn't. Mycroft kept so much of himself hidden, sharing that private side with only the few that he deemed worthy, and to try to explain the man he'd fallen in love with to strangers, or even to friends, always felt like a betrayal. 

But this. This was why he loved Mycroft so much. It was in the way Mycroft held him so tightly that it would have risked breaking a bone in a human body and left bruises even on his superior one. It was in the way Mycroft whispered his name as he kissed the top of Greg's head. Greg tilted his head back and met the next kiss with his mouth, slowly encouraging his alpha to make the third kiss something deeper, more passionate and raw. Mycroft kissed him hungrily, hours of pent-up worry mingling with desire.

Greg was already naked, and it was a simple matter to strip Mycroft of his pyjama bottoms. Their eyes met and held as Greg climbed on top, hands still holding on tight as he sank down. It was nothing at all like the frenzied sex of Greg's heat, and while that had been enjoyable this was an experience all on its own. It was just him and Mycroft and the familiar up-and-down that made his blood sing and Mycroft say dark things in Latin, and really that was all Greg thought he'd ever need.


	71. Chapter 71

In death, Jim Moriarty had not looked all that different from the way he had in life. He'd been beheaded, but for the purposes of sparing the squeamish his head had been tucked back on top of his body. A suit with a high collar hid the worst of the damage, though there was no mistaking the fact that he was dead. The memory of his still face haunted Molly as she stood by the window, staring dully down at the street below. No one had thought it was a good idea for her to be there when they set his coffin on fire, but she'd insisted. She needed to know that he was really gone and couldn't do any more damage.

She was an idiot, Molly reflected now, leaning her forehead against the glass. She'd allowed Jim - no, _Moriarty_ to sucker her in with all kinds of sweet comments. If it hadn't been for her, he probably wouldn't have had the knowledge about Sherlock necessary to create a trap. The whole situation could have been avoided. It was a miracle that everyone had turned out to be okay, and that Moriarty had been stopped before John and Greg lost their bonds, or, god forbid, were forced to bond with someone else.

But they were okay and Molly had proof: the last she'd seen of Sherlock and John, the two of them had been heading for a cab as fast as they could, leaving a sweet cloud of pheromones in their wake. Anthea had gone to speak with Mycroft, leaving Molly alone to contemplate whether she wanted to go back to her empty flat or head to work. There was really no reason to wait around the hospital any longer now that she knew it was only a matter of time before Greg work up, and since she'd taken a couple of "unexpected vacation days" they were probably pretty behind.

She turned to leave and was brought up short by a hand on her arm. Startled, she whirled around and realized that Anthea was standing right behind her. "You have _got_ to stop doing that," she said, letting her hands fall to her sides. "You're going to give me a heart attack."

Anthea smiled. "I'm sorry. I forget that not everyone can sense when I'm standing behind them. When you work around a Holmes all day, it's hard to sneak up on anyone." She paused. "Although I have surprised Sherlock once or twice."

Molly chuckled in spite of herself, noticing that Anthea had yet to let go of her arm. The contact was kind of nice. She hadn't really touched anyone since she and Jim had broken up. She didn't see her family very much, mostly because the only time her mum wanted her around was when Molly had or had done something worth showing off. And since she'd been dumped by the last thing that was worthwhile, it'd been a while. She tried to pretend she wasn't disappointed when Anthea let go.

"You're ahead of me, then," she said. "Most of the times Sherlock is the one who scares me."

"I'll give you some tips," Anthea promised, and Molly felt her stomach flutter because that sounded like maybe they might see each other again in the future.

"That would be nice," she said quietly, feeling her cheeks start to burn when Anthea only stared at her. Embarrassed, she added, "I-I mean, if you ever have the time for it. Because Sherlock can be hard on the head. He's really nice... well, nice isn't the word, he's a bit of a jerk sometimes, but he's a good man at heart and I think if I could stand up to him more he'd like me." And, oh god, _stop talking_.

"Sherlock likes you plenty, even before you helped to save the life of his omega. He's just crap at showing it," said Anthea. She looked thoughtfully at Molly before smiling. "Now that I've seen Mr Holmes and Greg away from the hospital, I'm free for a few hours. Would you like to go get breakfast with me?"

"Oh. Sure," Molly said, wondering if this counted as a date. She'd never really thought about dating a woman before, mostly because her mum was determined to see her married with children before she turned thirty-five. But as she followed Anthea down the hall, she couldn't help thinking that Anthea was a spectacularly beautiful woman. Even when she'd been up for over thirty hours with no food, she looked stunning - as compared to Molly, who looked like a train wreck on a good day.

And it was more than just looks. Anthea's every movement was both graceful and deliberate, but there was also an ease to her that made it all seem effortless. She was smart and skilled, but she didn't try to lord it over anyone, and she was kind and determined and the guards who'd mocked Molly listened to her and - Molly stopped walking, her eyes widening a little bit as she realized that apparently she had talked herself into a massive crush without even knowing it. Another crush on another person who was out of her league. 

Great.

"Molly? Are you okay?"

Molly looked up. "Oh god, sorry," she said, hurrying to catch up to Anthea. "I just - I get lost in my head sometimes, sorry. Silly me."

"It's not silly," Anthea said softly. "I think you're cute when you start daydreaming."

"Cute?" Molly's mouth dropped open a little. She didn't get the chance to say anything else, because Anthea suddenly stepped closer and kissed her.

It was short and sweet, just long enough for Molly to understand what was happening and close her eyes. She exhaled in a rush when it was over and blinked at Anthea. For the first time since they'd met, in spite of everything that they had gone through until now, she was treated to the sight of Anthea looking nervous. And it was because of _her_ , Molly Hooper. She stared, speechless, and was amazed to see that Anthea was actually starting to blush the longer they stood there in silence.

Anthea said, "I apologize, I shouldn't have done that without asking first."

"No," Molly said. "I mean, I - I liked it."

"You did?"

Molly nodded and smiled shyly. "You could do it again, if you want, Anthea."

"Jane."

"Sorry?"

"My real name," Anthea said, looking her square in the eyes, "is Jane."

"Jane," Molly repeated, a little surprised. She liked the way the name rolled off of her tongue, simple and exquisite, just like the woman standing in front of her. "Kiss me again, Jane."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know there won't be a new chapter next week, August 9th. I'll be too busy helping my parents move.


	72. Chapter 72

Sherlock's ankle no longer pained him as he strode down the hall. Although he would never admit it, the time he'd been spending in bed with John had given them both much needed time to recuperate. The doctor at the hospital had tried to discuss the possibility of surgery with him at length before he'd managed to escape; had she not been so dull, Sherlock might've been tempted to return just to point out that his advanced werewolf physiology had been up to the task of repairing the damage without outside intervention after all. 

He stepped into the kitchen, not surprised to see that his brother was sitting at the table, and moved over to the sink. John was still sleeping, but he sensed that it would not be long before his omega woke and he thought John might appreciate not waking to the sticky, come-streaked mess that he currently was. He found a bucket beneath the sink and began filling it with warm water, pointedly ignoring the gaze that he could feel on his back. But being ignored had never derailed Mycroft in the past, and it failed to do so now.

"John is well, I presume?" Mycroft said quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock said without turning around. He nearly added a remark about Mycroft's deductive abilities having been eroded due to too much sex, but stopped at the last second and instead added some soap to the bucket. Mycroft kept watching him until he continued, "And I'm guessing Lestrade is fairing equally well, considering that you have torn yourself away from him."

"Much as I hate to admit it, there were things I had to attend to. Moriarty's web will not dissolve on its own," Mycroft replied, setting his tea cup down on the saucer with a soft _clink_. "I needed to make sure that there is no opportunity for anyone to replace him."

The thought of a second Moriarty was enough to make Sherlock feel ill. He'd enjoyed the game, such as it was, for a while, but it had struck too close to what truly mattered for him to have any fond memories of the one man who had almost bested them all. He turned to face his brother at last, looking at him critically. Mycroft had lost weight during the past week, they both had, and his face was pale and wan. It was the first time in a very long time that Sherlock could recall seeing his brother in anything other than impeccably ironed clothing. The jeans and shirt Mycroft was wearing had both seen better days.

"It's taking you longer than you expected," he observed.

"Yes, but I'm being thorough. Perhaps unnecessarily so, but I find that with true enemies one can never be too careful." He paused again, briefly, before meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Anthea explained to me what happened at the hospital with the doctor who thought you were attacking John. Up until now, we have been too busy dealing with Moriarty for any plans to be made. But now I think it's time you considered having a bonding ceremony."

Sherlock's instinct was to curl his lip and leave the room without even bothering to voice his immense distaste for the mere mention of a ceremony. After listening to his mother talk about them at length when he was a child, he'd long ago decided that he would never bother to have one. It was ridiculous, the werewolf version of a human marriage, except made even more useless considering that it was for public record alone. He and John were already bonded, and now that Moriarty was gone no one would ever be able to take that away from them.

"I know what you're thinking," Mycroft said, a little amused. "You probably don't believe me, but I'm none too thrilled about it either. Gregory and I don't really have the time to spare. But you know as well as I do that it will prevent any situations like the one at the hospital from arising again. It will help the pack accept Greg and John that much more quickly, and cement your claim. Furthermore, once Mummy meets John she will insist. Firmly, and often, until you give in. You might as well start getting used to it now." He rose to his feet. "I'm not saying it has to happen right now, or in the near future, but it's inevitable."

"Go away," Sherlock muttered, hoisting the bucket out of the sink. He pretended not to listen to Mycroft's snort and kept his back turned until his brother had left the room. Only then did he grab some soft cloths and depart, his mind spinning.

A bonding ceremony. He'd never really expected that he would have one, but then again he'd never thought he would find an omega worth his time. John had proved him wrong on that aspect. There _was_ something appealing about having the whole world know that he and John were mates, so that everyone would know John was off limits. As he pushed the bedroom door open, he wondered if it was something that John would want. Or would he feel the way that Sherlock always had, that it was pointless?

John had moved in his absence, rolling over into the middle of the bed as though seeking out Sherlock's presence. The covers had fallen down around his thighs, providing a stunning view of the upper portion of his body. Sherlock paused to admire him for a moment before he shut the door and stepped forward. He dipped one of the clothes into the water and swiped it across John's belly. It took a couple of passes before John was clean, and by then John was stirring under the gentle touches.

"Sherlock?" he murmured.

"You're filthy," Sherlock whispered, ringing the cloth out and moving on to John's genitals. He handled his cock carefully before swiping between John's thighs and buttocks, washing away the remaining slick and come. John opened his eyes, a soft smile on his face as he sighed.

"That feels nice."

Sherlock made no comment, but he washed the rest of John's body with care before setting the cloth aside and studying him. He could tell that John would be back to himself fairly soon, but he wasn't there yet. He carefully slipped his arms under John and lifted, thoroughly enjoying the way that John simply curled into him with a lazy sound of pleasure. He placed John in the chair and turned back to survey the bed. The sheets were a mess. He stripped them off and left them in a pile on the floor before stopping, realizing that he had no idea how to put new ones on.

John chuckled. "Need a little help?"

"No."

"Liar." John's eyes were warm as he stretched, muscles flexing beneath golden skin. "How about this, you go shower and I'll -"

"Do you want to have a bonding ceremony?"


	73. Chapter 73

Moriarty was dead. Greg mused over how good those words made him feel as he showered away the grime, slick and come that covered his body. Just knowing that the dangerous psychopath had been successfully taken down, that Moriarty wouldn't be waiting around every corner to make their lives that much more difficult: he felt younger than he had in years. He dumped some shampoo into his hands and started to wash his hair, reflecting on what would come next. He knew that Mycroft would be busy trying to handle the remainder of Moriarty's web. It would take a lot of work to make sure that no one had the chance to take up where Moriarty had left off. And he knew that Mycroft would be the best person for the job.

But he also had to wonder just how much time that would leave Mycroft for their relationship. Being a wolf was still essentially new to him; though he had years of working in close proximity to werewolves to fall back on, that still hadn't completely prepared him for what it would be like to be one. Nor had he realized just how much he would want to be around Mycroft. Every moment they spent apart left him feeling a little bereft, like something important was missing. That feeling refused to go away until he was around Mycroft again. He was hoping that, given enough time, it would eventually fade. After all, neither of them had the kind of jobs that would afford them a lot of time spent together.

He sighed as he tipped his head back, allowing the stream of water to rain down over his face and hair. It was so loud that he failed to register the sound of the door opening until the curtain was being drawn back. The rush of cool air made him shiver. "Go away, Sherlock," he said without opening his eyes.

There was a soft huff of amusement, easily audible over the water. "I might have to call the doctor back if your senses are so out of whack that you think I'm my brother," Mycroft said. Greg opened his eyes and peeked at him, noticing that Mycroft was fully dressed for some reason. He was standing back just far enough to be sure that he didn't get wet, and the urge to splash him was almost overwhelming. The added bonus that Mycroft would then have no choice but to strip down had nothing to do with it, of course.

"No more doctors," Greg said, shaking his head. He was tired of being poked and prodded at, and it had been a relief to hear that he was being given a clean bill of health so long as he promised to take it easy for the next day or two. That was fine with him. Even taking a shower was sapping his strength. Twice now he'd had to lean against the wall for a moment until he felt steady enough to stand. No way could he go chasing after criminals (or Sherlock, more likely) like this.

"No more doctors," Mycroft agreed with an indulgent smile. "And I wouldn't worry too much about chasing my brother around. I've given him enough to think about for the time being."

Greg shut the water off, intrigued. There wasn't very much that could derail Sherlock from an interesting case. "And what would that be?" he asked, reaching for the towel he'd left. Mycroft got to it first, urging Greg to step out of the bath. Greg rolled his eyes but obeyed, the cooler air making him shiver as Mycroft tenderly began to pat him dry.

"I pointed out to him that he and John would be expected to engage in a bonding ceremony soon."

"Oh." The air left Greg in a rush. Somehow he had not been expecting that response, though perhaps he should have been. Mycroft had brought it up once or twice after John and Sherlock had gone through their first heat together, but after the whole fiasco with Moriarty things like bonding ceremonies had been pretty firmly pushed to the side. He wondered how Sherlock was taking the idea. For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had always scorned the idea of being connected to anyone. Just mating with someone was a big change, never mind a ceremony on top of that. 

"Yes," Mycroft said, kneeling down to take care of Greg's lower half. His expression was as full of concentration as when he worked on his paperwork, and Greg felt a rush of affection. "Even though there are several underlying reasons why I believe it's important, it will make sure that no one challenges either of them in the future."

"So John will know he has a place, and Sherlock won't have to be so possessive," Greg summarized. It made sense, though he wasn't sure that Sherlock would see it that way. Although, considering what Moriarty had attempted, perhaps he would. He studied Mycroft and didn't bother trying to hold back a grin. "I bet I know another reason for your suggestion."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're afraid of your mother," Greg said, laughing when he spotted the scowl crossing Mycroft's face. He had yet to meet Mrs Holmes, but he had spoken to her on the phone once or twice. She was a very formidable woman, exactly what he had been expecting of the mother of Sherlock and Mycroft, and she took no prisoners. When she wanted something done it got done, and Mycroft was no exception. He'd been stuck in the middle of Sherlock and Mrs Holmes before, and it was not a pleasant place to be in.

"Laugh all you like." Mycroft finally rose, putting the towel back where it belonged. Now that Greg was dry, he reached for a pair of boxers and pulled them on while pondering over Mycroft's statement. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant.

"What do you mean?" he asked finally, warily.

Mycroft picked up Greg's shirt and helped him to pull it on. It wasn't until all of the buttons had been done up that Mycroft spoke again. "She expects us to have a ceremony, too, and she's going to be planning out every minute of it with the help of you and John." He smirked at Greg's expression of outright horror and stood up, giving him a kiss on the mouth. "Have a good day of rest, my love."

"Traitor!" Greg yelled once he'd recovered, and heard only the distant sound of Mycroft's laughter in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice this story has been marked as complete, and that's because it is. Or rather, perhaps I should say that the first part is over. It was meant to explain how John and Sherlock dealt with Moriarty (using elements from _A Study in Scarlet_ , for those who never picked up on the details) and it has. However, I'm not done with Sherlock and John just yet! The sequel to this story will be released very soon, and it will detail the bonding ceremony, the pack, and Mummy Holmes - as well as a lot more fantastic sex between John and Sherlock and Mycroft and Greg (and maybe even Jane and Molly) because the world needs more of that! 
> 
> This was my second story in the Sherlock BBC fandom, my first one with A/B/O dynamics, and I am so beyond thrilled with the response. Thank you SO much. You made me feel more than welcome and encouraged me to keep going even when I felt like stopping. I can only hope the sequel will be received just as positively.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/). Until next time, my dears!


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